The Angel of Notre Dame
by twilightdetectiveA
Summary: AU. Trapped in the bell tower of Notre Dame, Castiel, tainted, different and socially rejected angel, is utterly miserable. But it only takes one smart-ass human and his sasquatch brother to change all that. Dean/Castiel. SLASH.
1. Barely Existing

**_A/N: _**_Oka__y, so I have such an EPIC plot for this story, so far I only have this chapter perfected but I'm working on the next ones. So, erm yeah, incase you couldn't tell from the summary and title its based off the story of the Hunchback of Notre Dame ( loosely, I would say though I may incorporate more of the original plot into it as I go along, idk.) If you don't know the story I would HIGHLY recommend watching the Disney version, not 'cause it helps with reading this, just 'cause it's awesome! XD_

_Oh and the bell Emmanuel is actually located in the south tower of the cathedral but for the plots sake let's just move the 13 ton beast to Castiel's quarters in the west :P_

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**_Chapter One_**

_Barely Existing_

In the heart of Paris, on the eastern side of the Île de la Cité, resides an unfortunate angel, trapped and oppressed, in the bell tower of an age old cathedral; _Notre-Dame de __Paris_ - breathtakingly beautiful, ancient, gothic and holy, so very holy - has been the home of Castiel, Angel of Solitude and Tears since the day of his birth.

It is on the 9432nd day of Castiel's existence, 25 years into his miserable life, that things finally begin to change.

Dawn has broken and the sun is making its warm presence known, a sleepy metaphorical eye peeking from behind the wide expanse of the abandoned hills of the countryside. It shines its brilliant daylight into the windows of slumbering men, women and children, alerting the dozing town of Paris that the day has officially begun. The sunlight spreads, bathing the city in a cheerful yellow glow, crossing the Seine river, flitting through the evergreen shrubbery that surrounds the cathedral, inching up the religious portals carved into its west side and up, up, up, into the narrow arched windows of the bell tower.

He is woken by the feeling of warmth that pools on his cheek, the sun's customary morning caress the only one Castiel has ever known, and he groans as he realises it is time to get to work; he knows if he delays the ringing of the church bells any longer his master Raphael will see that he is punished in some godawful way.

He shudders as he remembers the slicing pain in his arms, his muscles screaming in agony as he pulled the weight of the largest bell in the tower for hours on end, the ringing in his ears, the sensitive drums inside throbbing with the echoes of Emmanuel's never ending _ding dong__,__ ding dong_.

Raphael had gone easy on the poor angel that day.

Reluctantly, Castiel pulls his neglected body from the makeshift bed in the corner. He stands, clothed in a ragged green t-shirt and loose fitting brown slacks - the clothes he had adorned for most of his life, that miraculously still fit - and stretches, fingertips reaching upwards, mere inches short of the low ceiling. Finally, hesitantly, after scanning the room and making certain that no eyes were peeking through the towers windows, no-one was looking upon him from behind the bells, in the shadows, he unfurls his wings.

At first glance Castiel's wings appear to be simply black.

However, on closer inspection, if one had courage enough to see past the prejudices of today's society, which deem Castiel a dammed angel, tainted and ugly and unworthy of the life he has lived, and look at the angel in a more intimate fashion, then you would discover that the feathers of his wings range from the blackest ebony where they protrude from his back, to a beautiful dark midnight blue which covers the majority of them, ending with a cool crystal white at the very tips which trail ever so slightly along the floor.

Despite the obvious beauty of them, Castiel despises his wings; to him they represent a life of misery, whipped into slavery by his unforgiving master. A master who looked upon his parents faces with pity when they came to him begging for help, for they had produced such an ugly little creature which could never be considered an Angel of the Lord and therefore must be imprisoned in Notre Dame away from the world and put to use as a slave.

The Archangel Raphael had been his master ever since.

Castiel feels bile rise up in his throat at the very thought of him. Angel of what? Castiel isn't sure, only knows that it cannot possibly be anything good; cruelty like he has thrust upon Castiel could never have been achieved by any kind, wholesome angel. He never voices his opinions on his master though, simply does as he's told in order to avoid the blows of his incredible fists, the slash of his angel sword against his fragile skin. Sighing, Castiel pulls his tattered green shirt over his head and removes the yellowing bandages wrapped around his waist; he will need to find a new first aid kit from somewhere soon. Underneath, the gauze is blood soaked so he removes that too. Biting his lip he examines the sickening wound devouring the slight curve of his left side, the puckered skin doesn't seem to be healing very well and through exhaustion Castiel cannot get a handle on his Grace in order to speed up the process.

Raphael had really outdone himself this time.

Not one to dwell, Castiel pulls his fading t-shirt back on and smoothes it over his flat stomach, ignores the rumbling which is a sure sign that he is hungry and sets off towards the bells.

Along the way he stops at one of the many wooden beams which crisscross around the upper quarters of the tower, supporting the ceiling and rooftop. Over the years he has taken to marking them with one of his many stolen chisels in order to determine the date. Starting from the very first day he was flung into this tower for good (during early childhood Castiel had been allowed to wander the entire cathedral) which he knows to be the 25th of February 1992, he has etched into the ancient wood - only slightly though, just enough for him to be able to feel it. He remembers the one time he lost count and couldn't decide whether it was the 5th or 6th of a particular month and so, being the precise angel he is, had to recount 6 years of markings. It turned out that it was neither the 5th nor the 6th but the 7th and so Castiel had vowed never to lose count again.

If he is correct, today is Thursday, 17 June 2010 and he has spent a quarter of a century confined in this cathedral and over 18 years imprisoned in just the upper quarters. Well, he says 'just'; Raphael does not know of his secret, does not know that crafty little Castiel had found an escape route. A loose panel in one of the smaller windows which Castiel had spent days carefully dislodging without smashing the beautiful stained glass. Now he could easily remove and replace it seamlessly without Raphael noticing. Despite this though, Castiel had only used his escape route a mere 4 times: the first time was the night after completing the dislodging process, though through paranoia he had only crouched along the upper balcony and stole a few glances at the splendid city below from the shadows of the night before retreating back to his beloved bells. The second and third time had been exactly a year apart, Castiel knows the twentieth day of the eight month to be the day of his birth and so, feeling like he deserved something from this life other than the brutality he had forever been subjected to, Castiel slipped the panel aside and slid out onto the balcony twice more, revelling in the sounds of the bustling city of Paris and the fresh, cool night air stirring goosebumps on his skin. It was enough and not enough at the same time.

The fourth time Castiel had realised that he had been wasting his opportunities; he could be gaining things from these stolen nights of freedom. Having never used his wings before and afraid that by trying for the first time by simply flinging himself off the top of Notre Dame and hoping for the best he may end up killing himself, the angel had chosen to use the very, very old fashioned method of abseiling_._ He had scaled the cathedral with a length of rope he had come across once and put aside in case it someday turned out to be useful, keeping to the shadowy parts of the awe-inspiring building in order to remain hidden.

Once his feet were firmly on the ground and he fought down the initial overwhelming thought of _run, run and never look back!_ Castiel began to think. He decided that a visit to a pharmacy would be the best use of his time. Luckily, it turned out there was one not far from the cathedral but unluckily it was run down and currently being refurbished.

Castiel decided he didn't care, he had to chance it so, cautiously he had broken in through the back and, after nearly choking on a cloud of dust, had managed to find some supplies: gauze, band aids, bandages, aspirin, a small pair of silver scissors and various antiseptic wipes all contained within a green box. He took two of them.

It was on the way out that he had stumbled upon the black bag of tools left at the foot of the back door, one of the builders assigned to the refurbishing must have left it. From the moment he opened the bag and saw the glint of the shiny silver within, Castiel knew he had to have it. Hastily, he shoved the two green boxes in the bag with the tools and made his way back to the cathedral, scaling the walls once again.

Remembering the experiences Castiel itches to creep to the window and pull it aside now and escape forever. Except he knows he can't, knows that if he did he wouldn't get very far, Raphael has half of Castiel's Grace collected in a pendant that hangs around his neck, a way of tracking down the angel if he so desired.

Besides, with Castiel's luck, or lack thereof, Raphael might just be the Archangel of Hunting and Castiel figures he wouldn't get very far in very long if he even tried.

He can never leave.

Moving on swiftly from that very depressing subject that had lodged its way into Castiel's mind he crouches to the floor and eases one of the floorboards from its place, revealing a dust covered, black bag full of rusted tools. He plucks his smallest, sharpest chisel from the pile, carefully etches a thin line into the wood of the beam closest to his bed and sets off about the rest of his day.

"Good morning, Emmanuel" He greets the bell as he would a friend.

Pathetically, it is the closest thing to one that he has.

For now, anyway.


	2. Enochian Sigils

**_A/N:_**_ Yay! Another chapter the day after the first! I wouldn't get too used to it, Christmas is coming up and me has Christmassy things to do . I believe this is becoming a bit of a wing!fic and goddamnit I wish I had put that in the summary but, alas, FF only allows 255 character, stupid. Anyhoo, here's chapter two fresh off Microsoft Word. Enjoy!_

_HUGE thanks to my reviewers Laci Cullen, Wolfa Moon, TealEyedBeing and an extra special thanks to TheNowandFutureQueen 'cause your review was amazing and nearly brought me to tears :') You make me want to write and write and write til I can't feel my fingers no more!_

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**_Chapter Two_**

_Enochian Sigils_

Castiel is sat at his desk carving his latest figurine: the little girl that had showed up on the doorstep of the bakery that he could see from the arched window. She had turned out to be the owner's niece and he knows this because Raphael had told him. Yes, Castiel is well informed on the town of Paris and its occupants, knows of people he's never set eyes on, never mind held a conversation with and that's purely down to Raphael's intense disliking of silence and his need to fill it with his own voice.

Castiel listens simply because it is the only social interaction he can take part in - that and it numbs the dull ache of ever long boredom that has settled in his chest. His hobby also helps; carving the townspeople using the tools he had stumbled upon so long ago makes him feel closer to the city somehow, like he is more of a part of it rather than merely an observer and it is a way to pass the time when he is not ringing bells.

His slender hands move swiftly with purpose and he carves with precision, the child's image clear in his mind. Within minutes the lump of wood has been transformed into a smiling young girl with long hair fixed in braids, one small hand clutching at that of a ratty teddy bear. Castiel blows the shavings off the figure and stands it proudly next to the figures of her aunt and uncle, just outside the model of the bakery he had constructed many years ago. She will need to be painted but Castiel doesn't have the energy to concentrate on details and lines and miniature facial features and so he stands, dusts himself off and goes to the window.

Longing - Castiel's lifelong friend - makes its presence known in the angel's stomach and he can feel the prick of tears in his eyes as he watches the world below him live and breathe.

He would give anything to be free of this tower, of his master, of these hideous wings that landed him here in the first place. But he knows it will never happen and so he sighs and goes back to his desk, places a greying sheet over his stagnated city and hides it away before Raphael can catch sight of it.

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"Sammy, what are we doing here again?" Dean asks as he straightens up from the uncomfortable sleeping position against the Impala's window and Sam parks his baby outside a creepy looking church. Absently, he wipes the line of drool that had slipped down his chin; must've been some dream he had. He smirks.

Sam sighs. "Dude, for the thousandth time already, we're here because some locals have reported seeing a creature in the bell tower."

Dean looks sceptic. "That's it? No more info on this thing like, um...I don't know, _what the hell it is?_"

"Could be an angel, 'cept that it has gigantic black wings."

Sam shrugs and gets out of the car, Dean follows, suddenly not sure he wants to be a part of this anymore. They've dealt with rogue angels before, hell - they've dealt with just about every supernatural son of a bitch known to man - but never an angel with _black_ wings. It's unheard of and so Dean begins to wonder if it is an angel after all, maybe it's some sort of overgrown bird, a scary giant crow of sorts or a mutant raven. Dean shudders; he hates birds.

"Dude." Sam is impatiently ushering him through a cluster of trees and round the back of the cathedral. Considering its peak season for tourists, Dean can't see anyone save for the odd chorister making their way to what Dean assumes to be the main entrance of the cathedral. He finds that strange but shrugs it off and trails after Sam's lanky frame that's disappeared round the corner.

"This the place then Sammy?" His brother is looking up at the two towers which stand honourably before them when he reaches him. Sam nods and begins searching for an inconspicuous way in; he finds a locked door at the side of the right tower and gets out his lock picking kit. Dean is on lookout duty, scouring for priests and churchgoers and more choristers in their bright red get up. He thinks he glimpses a flash of white wings over by the fountain behind some bushes but before he can take it in, it's gone. Again, he shrugs it off; it's not uncommon to see an angel or two surrounding a holy place and a cathedral of this magnitude is sure to attract a large amount of them, they do like to be close to Daddy after all.

Nevertheless, no one shows up to bust the two brothers when Sam succeeds in picking the lock and they both hurriedly shuffle inside the doorway. Dean closes the heavy oak door behind them, careful not to let it bang and then both brothers scan their surroundings. From what they can see, they get the feeling that this part of the cathedral is off limits to the public, hell it looks like it's off limits to everyone; cobwebs embellish the whole space, gathering in the corners in big webs of age old dust and it smells more ancient than some of the rotting corpses they so frequently salt and burn. Dean winces at the smell and covers his mouth. Sam rolls his eyes and voices his guess that the stone steps to the left of them must lead to the bell tower. Dean agrees and so they start there, climbing step by step cautiously and dodging the swinging ropes of dust that hang from the ceiling.

They reach the top puffing and wheezing and Dean has a stitch in his side. There is just no way he's ever doing that again. They better gank this freak pronto 'cause he ain't coming back for a second helping of the Steps of Death if they don't, Paris be damned.

Once they catch their breath they continue down the long corridor that snakes off from the steps. There's various doors along the way from what Dean can make out through the dark, the lack of windows really isn't helping, but they seem fairly unimportant, he doesn't know why he thinks that, only knows that Sam isn't objecting his opinion and suggesting they check them just incase. They press on, further down the corridor and come to a stop at another grand oak door. This one looks a hell of a lot thicker and stronger than the last but oddly it doesn't have a lock. It is, however, covered in weird symbols and writing of a language that in all his years Dean has never encountered. Sam's face mirrors his own baffled expression as they turn to look at one another.

"Should we..?" Dean gestures to the rusty door handle. Sam hesitates for a second before answering.

"Well, if it's unlocked, I don't see why there'd be anything dangerous in here..." He trails off and Dean can't help his comical gulp that sounds through the corridor as his bothers hand closes around the handle.

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Castiel is confused; it is not yet time for Raphael's daily visit yet he hears the door to the upper quarters open and footsteps sounding on the creaky floorboards. He stiffens, if Raphael is coming to him earlier...if he wants him for something it cannot be good, it is never good when Raphael wants something. Castiel remembers when his master had ordered him to scrub the bells inside out until his angelic reflection was no longer blurred when he stood before them.

He stands, still as the gargoyles and statues of apostles that garnish the cathedral, and awaits the onslaught of torture, the demands of his master, thinking only: _what have I done now_?

When Raphael never appears Castiel feels the ice cold snake of fear coil around his spine. If not Raphael then Castiel does not know who, never thought he'd be willing his merciless master to walk from behind Emmanuel and burden him with a task that would be unbelievably harsh on his frail body. He listens closely, trying unsuccessfully to pinpoint where the footsteps have gone, again his Grace takes up too much strength for him to muster enough to enhance his hearing and Castiel truly begins to panic when he realises he has let the footsteps pass through his concentration and they appear to be a lot closer than they were before. And there are two sets.

A gasp sounds from behind him and with a _whoosh! _Castiel's wings spread out behind him reflexively in defence. Enormous and dark as shadow, they twitch and his feathers bristle and the sheer size of them consumes any and all light that was previously shining through the window. The room is plunged into artificial darkness and Castiel is still stood, body tensed and coiled like a deadly snake about to attack; he does not know where this reaction to being sneaked up on has come from: _perhaps from the years of isolation - foolish angel_, his minds supplies for him and Castiel vehemently agrees.

"Who are you?" He demands loudly, his voice like gravel, carrying through the shield of feathers his wings have provided him with.

The two men stiffen at this, almost as still as the angel in front of them save for the shaking of the shorter one's hands. Castiel cannot see this, can only sense it, the adrenaline pumping through his veins has donated him enough energy to put his Grace to use.

"Sam..." he hears the whisper and there's a shift in the air inhabiting the room, the shorter one has moved his head to look at the other one whom Castiel presumes to be Sam.

Castiel is being addressed, "Hey man, we're not, uh...Sammy, are we here to hurt him?"

Sam turns to his brother, a confused look on his face. _Well yeah, _Sam thinks, _we were here to hurt him._ But even he can't ignore the change of the word "are" to "were". Something about this angel seems different and Sam can't bring himself to harm him without learning more about him first, he doesn't seem dangerous. If he was they'd surely both be dead by now, or at least severely injured; angels are powerful sons of bitches yet this one chose defence over offence and that says a lot in the Winchester's book, a hell of a lot.

Sam says "no" to Dean's question and he notices the twitch of the angels wings as they slowly start to lower and the light beings to fill the room once more.

"Then what do you want with me?" The angel turns from the window and faces the brothers, sunlight gleaming behind him, flitting through the iridescent _blue_-black feathers, pooling above the dark hair on his head like a halo and seemingly lighting up the angels very pale skin.

Dean is awed.

He has never seen eyes that shade of blue before.


	3. The Initial Reference

**_A/N:_**_ This chapter sucks ass, srsly. I hate writing dialogue and there's heaps of it in here that is kinda essential to the plot__ but__ I__ really__ hope you guys don't __hate this chapter TOO__ much. It starts out really quite fun, I figured mopey!Cas, while incredibly cute and huggable, was getting a little too depressing so voila, Dean steps in to lighten the mood ^.^_

_Again, a massive thanks to all my reviewers of chapter 2. I think ima reply to your reviews individually 'cause some of them are real long but I'll give you guys a shout out 'cause you're awesome! Luciel89, khlo, kipangel17, winchestergirl1 and - rapidly becoming my two fav reviewers - TealEyedBeing and TheNowandFutureQueen. You guys are made of pure awesome and I can't thank you enough for your wonderful reviews or explain how much they mean to me :')_

_Oh and, just to address an issue, no Cas isn't ugly, lolz – he just has his 'unique' wings which people don't seem to like__. Poor Cas :'(_

_Anyhoodles, without further ado, I present to you the ass-sucking Chapter 3!_

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**_Chapter Three_**

_The Initial Reference_

"Then what do you want with me?"

The angel turns and Dean bites back another gasp; the one he let slip earlier was enough to make Sammy regard him as a girl and never let him live it down, thank you very much.

But those wings.

Dean can't help thinking '_Wow, I'm seeing a tiny piece of heaven here and I'm so freaking stoked' _or the feeling of complete and utter awe that spreads through his body as his eyes roam the vast expanse of dark, lustrous feathers.

"What are you?" Dean wants to know, whispers the question soft and curious before catching himself and carrying on. "I mean...an angel? With those freaky black things?"

The wings shrink noticeably before Dean's eyes, curl in on themselves, white tips brushing against the angel's arms and Dean wants to take his last comment back at the flash of obvious hurt on it's face. Even more so when something like deep resignation sets in it's features and he gets the feeling that he isn't the first person to have pointed out the obvious...uniqueness...of this particular angel's wings.

"They are the wings that were bestowed upon me at birth by my father. Just as your eyes are green, my wings are black - the way He created us." It replies, gentle and submissive but Dean detects the note of respect and admiration it has for this so called omniscient Dad. He nods curtly, not at all comfortable with the topic they've strayed to and by a way of changing it asks the angel another question because really, Dean can't go on calling it _I__t_ forever.

"What's your name? You do have a name, right? Angels have names don't they Sammy?" He turns to his brother who still has his I'm-thinking-really-hard-about-something-so-excuse-me-if-I-look-constipated face on and Dean doesn't expect a reply.

"My name is Castiel, Angel of Solitude and Tears." Again, with the submissiveness.

Dean gapes, "Dude, could you be more depressing?"

Castiel's face turns into an angelic and less-constipated-more-adorable version of Sammy's and he says simply, "I have just informed you that my name is Castiel and yet you refer to me as 'Dude'. I do not understand. Are you ill?"

Dean gapes some more. A whole lot more. Dropped jaw and red face to complete the perfect offended/amused look he has going on right now and Sam swallows his laughter and Castiel just goes on looking confused.

"Castiel?" Sam clears his throat and tries out the name on his tongue for the first time. He thinks he's mis-pronounced it because the angel turns to him, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. He doesn't correct him though.

"Yes?"

"I'm Sam Winchester, this is my brother Dean." He gestures to his brother and Dean winks jokingly, overconfident grin firmly in place. "We're hunters, which basically means our goal in life is to rid the world of evil supernatural things like demons and ghosts."

"Think, Scooby Doo and the gang without the mask aspect." Dean chirps in helpfully. "Dibs on Fred. Sammy, you can be Shaggy - God knows you have the hair."

Sam shoots him a disbelieving look.

"Riiight. Anyway, we came here because some of the locals have reported seeing you. Well to be more accurate, they've reported seeing your wings and...uh, they're kinda afraid, you see you might just about be the only angel in existence with black wings and it's a little...unsettling, to say the least."

Throughout Sam's explanation Dean watches as the angel Castiel's face grows unfeasibly more white and depressed and his wings deflate even further. _They look like they're trying to cram themselves behind the poor guy's back_, Dean thinks and has the sudden urge to reach out and touch the seemingly velvet feathers in order to inject a bit more life into them. Castiel is looking at the floor and his eyes are shiny and Dean wants to punch Sam for his last words because that's when the angel looks up and the expression of complete desolation on his face and his wide blue eyes, unshed tears glimmering on his eyelashes has Dean's mind racing with the words _kicked _and _puppy_.

"People...they are afraid of me?" Castiel looks like he might just cry and Dean thinks that if he does he might just cry too but of course, Dean Winchester avoids chick-flick moments like Sammy avoids a haircut and so he tries to make the angel feel better by placing a hand on his shoulder.

Bad move.

Castiel jerks back from his touch, shooting across the room and all but hyperventilates over in the corner. Dean's eyes go wide and his hand is still frozen in the air at Angel Shoulder Height.

"Please...do not...do that again." Castiel wheezes, huge eyes a shade of otherworldly blue. He is very much unused to physical contact; at least physical contact of the non-violent kind and so when Dean laid a hand on his shoulder his instincts had started raging at him and the word _danger_ flashed red before his eyes.

"Sorry man, uh...you okay-"

Dean doesn't get to finish because Castiel's face has gone an impossible shade of pale and his hands are shaking and his feathers are mussed up and he's silencing the brothers with a raised finger.

No one breathes: the angel listens.

Castiel's heart drops to his stomach as he hears the footsteps of his master ascending the stone steps of the tower and his brain goes into to panic mode.

"You have to leave." he hisses, fear and dread and desperation seeping out of his words as they hit the air between him and the Winchesters. Dean and Sam stand looking worried as Castiel's eyes flicker about the room finally setting on Dean's face. "Go," he's ushering them around a large beam that obscures the majority of the left side of the room and cloaks the view of a narrow corridor that leads to Castiel's window. "Follow this corridor round to the end."

Raphael is at the door now, hand poised on the handle, milliseconds away from twisting it and yanking the door open.

The brothers are already skidding towards the corner and out of sight.

"Third pane from the left. Rose. Hide on the balcony," he doesn't know if they hear but he desperately hopes so; if Raphael were to find them Castiel does not know what will happen, only knows he never wants to find out.

The oak door has been opened now.

Castiel reaches down quickly and plucks a rag doused in polish from the pile of cleaning supplies near Emmanuel; he begins smoothing it over the bell's surface, hoping the movement will mask the shaking of his hands.

"Castiel." Raphael drags out his name and Castiel swallows the sudden lump of terror wedged in his throat. The Archangel appears, large and intimidating; ash-white wings, all angles and sharpness, splayed arrogantly behind him. They do not twitch once; Raphael is always sure of himself.

"Master?" Castiel's eyes are huge and half crazed with anticipation, he knows but he cannot control it, only tries his best not to let his gaze flicker over to the windows.

"You have yet to show me the results of your latest assignment, Castiel. I would very much like to assess your work."

Raphael's voice is commanding and loud and disapproving and Castiel cannot help the shudder it provokes across his skin.

"Yes, master," he replies, setting down the rag and moving towards the Archangel. "I have completed the polishing of every bell...save for Emmanuel" he hesitates knowing that Raphael will not like this. As expected the archangel's face twists into a snarl and his robust arm rises and falls, fist hitting Castiel squarely in the jaw before Castiel can comprehend what is happening. He sways, stars shooting rapidly in front of him and he falls to his knees before the archangel and pleads desperately.

"Forgive me Master, I am sorry. I was fatigued, I could not move any more hurriedly. But that is no excuse, oh please, I promise I will do better next time, I will. I will be quick as lighting and when I am finished the bells will gleam brighter than the Grace of God."

Castiel is sobbing openly now, face soaked in tears, frantic hands clutching the archangel's leg and Raphael smirks triumphantly at the sight before him. "There, there little Castiel," he pats the quivering heap before him on the head. "You know I am harsh with you for your own benefit; you must work hard and repent for our Father will never receive you at Heaven's gates if you do not."

Castiel weeps harder at this, he knows these words well, has heard them a thousand if not a million times but they never get any better, any less harsh.

"Yes, Master. I understand. I am truly sorry." His voice is shattered, soft.

Raphael releases Castiel's hair from his palm and instructs the broken angel to stand. He does so and silently continues with his work as the archangel takes his leave with a parting gift of delicious grapes that are flung onto Castiel's bed. The angel expresses his perpetual thanks for the gift by scrubbing the bells surface more vigorously.


	4. Patch Me Up

**_A/N: _**_Betcha didn't see this coming did you? A double update, haha! Unfortunately this one's just a bit of a fluffy filler and not much happens but I hope you guys still enjoy :)_

_Reviewers for chapter 3, iloveyouall – you are awesome :')_

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**_Chapter Four_**

_Patch Me Up_

Castiel waits before he can no longer sense Raphael's Grace before crumbling to the floor in a heap of tears and blood – his master's ring had cut into the delicate skin along his jaw, busting it open. It's throbbing, spikes of pain threatening to bruise and Castiel winces when his fingers brush against the tender flesh.

He has completely forgotten about the two hunter brothers when they enter the room once more, looking utterly confused. Dean speaks first, "What's the deal with Big Bird?"

Castiel does not know of this 'Big Bird' person but supposes that Dean is referring to Raphael. He turns to look at him and both brothers gasp at the sight of the angel's face.

"The deal," Castiel starts, voice thick with tears. "Is that he is my master and I must obey him. If not...well, you can see the consequences with your own eyes."

Castiel's words trial off with a pained cry of self pity which rapidly turns into soundless uncontrollable sobs as he wraps his arms around his knees and curls in on himself, wings arching around his shoulders. Dean silently fumes; he and Sam had shuffled along the balcony in order to watch the scene between Castiel and whoever was coming up the stairs unfold. Both had only caught a glimpse of the huge-winged holy bastard though before Dean's phone buzzed in his pocket alerting him that Bobby was calling. They had missed the whole angelic showdown by the time Bobby had finished telling them that there was a ghost haunting a nearby school that needed to be taken out and when they peeked back into the window all that could be seen was Castiel scrubbing at that huge bell hanging in his room like an angel possessed.

Now though, Dean knows what went down. And okay, he's only just met this angel but there is something deep in his gut that is screaming at him that this situation right here, well, there is something seriously _wrong_ with it and Dean is finally getting a picture of what that is when Castiel refers the feathery beast as 'master'. He has to fight hard to hold down the bile threatening to rise up his trachea.

Sammy is crouched down in front of the angel, careful not to get too close for fear of frightening him and Dean can't help but wish that he had gotten there sooner, before Sam. 'Cause he wants to comfort this angel, this angel that is so different from the other holier-than-thou, stick-up-my-ass prick angels he sees and deals with so often. This angel is calm and quiet, soft and placid and there's something soothing about that gravelly voice of his and something very enchanting about those midnight wings. Dean joins his brother who is trying to calm the angel by telling him that "It's ok, Castiel. Everything is ok."

Somehow Dean doesn't think that's going to work.

"Cas," he starts, crouching closer to the angel than Sam is, _too close_, he thinks, but the angel doesn't push him away, only looks up at him with those eyes. He doesn't realise he's just given Castiel a nickname until the angel points it out.

"That is not my name," he says, all breath and no voice. He isn't complaining though, Dean can sense that in the way his eyes are gazing in wonder, so many emotions swimming around in the endless blue of his irises.

"I know," Dean replies and thinks how stupid it sounds. "It's uh...a nickname. You never had a nickname?" Castiel shakes his head and Dean doesn't quite know what to say but at least the tears have stopped and at least he's getting up off the floor now and smoothing himself over.

Sam and Dean follow suit and then Sam is talking to Cas about healing and Dean is walking over to the window. It's dark out now, they've spent far too much time here already and pretty soon they're gonna have to leave. What they're gonna do about Castiel, Dean doesn't know 'cause the whole reason for them coming here was to gank a supernatural freak that was terrifying the locals with its, and Dean quotes, "horrifying black wings that look like they belong to a monster sent straight from Hell". Remembering that particular woman and her comment about Cas's wings, Dean almost laughs at how wrong she had been. There's nothing remotely hellish about Castiel, nothing at all. In fact, Dean thinks that Castiel's wings are the furthest thing from evil he has ever seen and more on the other end of the spectrum.

Turns out, Cas has used up his grace for today trying to track Raphael when the sneaky S.O.B came to crash the party. Dean doesn't quite understand how an angel's grace works but he figures that's a question for another day.

"There is a medical kit under that loose floorboard, Sam," Castiel says, pointing to said floorboard and Sam begins to dislodge it. "Could you hand it to me, please?"

Dean intervenes, "Here Sammy, let me take it. Cas, lay back."

The angel looks hesitant but does as Dean asks, lies down on the pathetic bed in the corner and waits for Dean who is rummaging through the very old, very won out medical kit. Once he's found what he's looking for – the last antiseptic wipe and an oversized band aid – Dean makes his way over to Castiel. The angel is nervous, Dean can see that from the way the feathers on his wings are twitching restlessly and his eyes are wide again. He sits on the edge of the bed.

"Castiel, listen to me. I'm not going to hurt you. But you can't freak again when I touch you." He says it gently, trying to further relate his message by looking Cas right in the eyes. The angel gulps and then nods and Dean begins to work on the gash in the angels jaw.

His first touch is hesitant; he places the tips of his fingers under Cas's chin and pushes up ever so slightly to get a better angle on the wound and he can feel the angel trembling beneath him. He doesn't seem to be freaking too much though, which is definitely an improvement from earlier. Dean works quickly, telling Castiel that the wipe will sting and when it does and Castiel winces and grips Dean's free hand, he holds on too and he doesn't let go until he has to put the band aid on.

During Cas's patching up Dean talks to him, asks him some stuff that he wishes he hadn't 'cause he doesn't like the answers. But he's learnt things now, things like the fact that Cas has been stuck up here for most of his life, that those freaky symbols on the door are "Enochian sigils made to entrap an Angel of the Lord" and that Raphael has been beating Castiel for stupid petty things since the angel can remember. He isn't surprised when Cas tells him the whys behind all these horrors, that it's all because of his wings and because they are different but it doesn't mean Dean isn't pissed or that he doesn't grip Castiel's hand a little tighter in a way of reassurance, because he is and he does. What he's trying to reassure the angel of he's really not certain but he feels like something is happening here, something which means that Dean is ready to help out this lonely feathered guy whatever the costs. He likens it to finding a stray cat, beaten and abused and basically left out to dry and Dean so wants to give this cat a big saucer of milk and get some meat on its bones and see it tear out its previous owners jugular. Dean sighs and finishes, placing the band aid ever so gently on Cas's jaw, fingers brushing the stubble on the angel's cheek and gets up from the bed.

Castiel thanks him softly and sits up, scooting up until his back hits the wall and he can lean against it, the cool of the stone pressed against his cheek. He is exhausted.

* * *

Sammy has disappeared, Dean notices, and he doesn't know where to. Not wanting to call out and disturb the peaceful silence that has descended upon the room Dean goes in search of his brother, starting with the hidden corridor. It turns out to be exactly where Sam is, brooding by the window and looking out at the sparkling activeness that is Paris. From here Dean can see the Seine river, its calm blue water a startling contrast to the shoppers and tourists and locals roaming around the city and he knows that that is exactly what Sam is looking at. He's probably thinking about how beautiful it is and how nature is a wonder and how he wishes Dean would appreciate it too, Dean thinks. But he does appreciate it, even if he doesn't say so.

"Sammy, you good?" he asks placing a comforting hand on his sasquatch brother's shoulder, 'cause Sammy is looking seriously down and more than a little cheesed-off right now.

He nods but Dean knows that whatever he's gonna say next will completely contradict it.

"It's just...Castiel..." Dean understands and Sam doesn't need to go on. He had been thinking the same thing; they can't leave him here now. They're both in too deep, have witnessed something so unjust and cruel and neither would be able to live with the guilt of packing up and sailing off into the sunset knowing that Castiel is trapped here and being beaten. Fair do's if the angel could escape but Dean and Sam know that he can't, not without that son of a bitch Raphael knowing and tracking him down and even then, secretly Dean thinks he wouldn't leave him stuck here, has grown fond of this quirky angel...after a few hours. Which really is ridiculous but Dean doesn't give it any more thought.

The brothers make their way back into Castiel's room and are greeted with a sleeping angel, snoring quietly, cheek pressed against the wall. Dean smiles fondly but hides it fast. "I'm uh, just gonna lie him down."

Gently, and really damn lightly, he places his hands on the angel's shoulders and manoeuvres him so he is lying flat on his back, head propped up on the pillow, blanket tucked tightly under his chin. Castiel curls in on himself and lets out a slight sigh of contentment and Dean makes sure Sam isn't looking when his hand sweeps quickly through Cas's dark hair that is all soft and smooth and feels just how Dean imagines the angel's feathers would feel. He doesn't dare touch _them_ though.

"Dean," his brother calls and he leaves the angel and finds his brother on the other side of that giant freaking bell, worried face intact as he looks at its smooth surface. "He didn't finish cleaning it."

"Well Sammy, I hope you've got a lot of elbow grease in those gangly limbs of yours." Dean replies throwing a polish drenched rag at him and picking one up for himself.


	5. Doris Day

**_A/N: _**_Okay, it__s 1 o clock in the morning and I'__m posting chap__ter 5...can you say addicted? O.O_

_I __guess I just LOVE writing this story 'cause of all you __**amazing**__ reviewers – so glad you guys are enjoying this, I never thought I'd get one review let alone 23! :')_

_So, this here is chapter 5. There's a reference to Doris Day in here that I couldn't not put in 'cause I could so imagine Dean saying it, lolz – but if ya don't understand it, basically Doris Day is now a recluse and once starred in an [awesome] musical called Calamity Jane...and that's all you really need to know.. ;P_

_Enjoy!_

_

* * *

_

**_Chapter Five_**

_Doris Day_

Dean is on the phone to Bobby as soon as the motel room door shuts.

He orders Sammy to do his thing with the laptop and flips open his cell, dialling the older hunter's number – they've only ever dealt with low-level angels before and somehow Dean doesn't think the same rules apply to Big Bird and others of his kind. If anyone will know of a way to temporarily toast an archangel though, its Bobby. If not, Dean's sure he has the resources to find out; the man's got books practically spilling outta his windows.

Logically, Dean knows the only way to free Castiel is to make Raphael go _poof_. It would be pointless to waste time trying to break those creepy sigils because then they're still faced with the problem of the damn pendant with Cas's grace in it. Dean also knows that if he were to try to snatch the pendant while Raphael's sleeping – or some other Cartoon Network shit - he might as well blow all his spare cash on his own funeral expenses beforehand. So yeah, the only possible solution is to deep fry the bastard and hope the pendant with Cas's Grace in it gets left behind when Raphael takes a trip into nothingness.

Bobby picks up on the second ring and Dean explains the situation to him as Sam turns on his laptop and gets to Googling.

When Bobby asks about the archangel, Sam sees his brother's jaw twitch as he relays the information he knows. "Some feather brain called Raphael. Apparently he's close to the big guy with a beard in the ranking system."

Bobby whistles down the phone, "No kiddin'. He's practically sat on Daddy's knee, s'one powerful son of a bitch. You got your work cut out for you here boys - gonna take more'n the usual deep fried angel routine."

_Just as expected, _Dean thinks bitterly.

"How much more we talkin' here Bobby?"

"Don't know for sure just yet. Good news is: angel lore says you can trap an archangel using the standard holy ring of fire."

Dean's perks up a little at this, at least they have something to go on until Bobby gets back to them with a solid method of disappearing the feathered bastard. He thanks him and clicks the phone shut.

* * *

When Castiel wakes up the next morning and goes to clean the bells he's pleasantly surprised to see that his reflection is as sharp as Raphael's angel sword. Smiling for the first time in a very, very long time, the angel goes over to the sink as sees two rags underneath that have been rinsed, rung out and placed neatly in the bucket along with the other cleaning supplies. There's also a note been left and Castiel reaches down and plucks it from the side of the bucket where it had been stuck and read the scrappy scrawl.

_Hey Feathers, _

_Figured you could use a hand (or 4) with making that monster of a bell shine. _

_Dont mention it, _

_Dean. _

_p.s. Sam has OCD – he __just __had_ _to __tidy__ up your cleaning supplies. Damn neat freak._

An alien sound escapes Castiel lips as he reads the note, one that makes his heart feel a little lighter but also one that he's never heard himself make before and so he does not know that he is laughing when he lifts the loose floorboard and places the note carefully in the side pocket of the black bag.

Its only early and Castiel has no work; he thinks he has about 3 hours before Raphael arrives to give him his next assignment and so he tries to think of things to do. He could get some more sleep, Father knows he needs as much as he can get, but his brain isn't complying and he feels too vivacious for sleep. He supposes he could go over the other bells but that would almost certainly be pointless, he's spent almost the entire day on them yesterday making sure they were to Raphael's standards.

For a moment he is stuck, stood in the middle of the room, teeth worrying his bottom lip and then his feet are carrying him to his desk before he can realise what he is about to do. He sits, pulls off the sheet and looks at his miniature city, thinking of how empty it seems without its two very real new additions.

It is a further hour and a half when he is finished with his miniature Sam and Dean and is now faced with the dilemma of where to place them; he does not know where they live, or if indeed they live in the city at all. They had said they were hunters; it is not implausible to think that they hop from town to town, residing in each on a temporary basis. Castiel's thumb is at his lips – his thinking pose – as he debates whether or not to situate them in the bell tower with himself. He has known them less than 24 hours and it seems strange to consider them friends just yet, Castiel has never had a friend and so of course he is wary of these two brothers that seem too kind to be true. But they had cleaned Emmanuel, assisted him with his assignment without him even knowing and Dean had cleaned his wound and handled him with such care, such tenderness that Castiel had never known and so to deny them the distinction of being considered his friend seems extremely rude to Castiel. He picks miniature Sam up first and places him next to his favourite bell in the tower, just to the left of miniature Castiel who is stood, wings unfurled, in front of Emmanuel. When he picks up miniature Dean he hold onto him for a while, slender fingers roaming the contours of his face, tracing the lines of the arrogant expression that the angel had carved and painted into his face – it seemed fitting that Dean would have that expression, throughout their encounter yesterday Castiel had observed the older brother and come to the conclusion that Dean Winchester was what a human would call a "smart-ass". He smiles fondly as he places the figure next to the figure of himself, a mere millimetre away from miniature Castiel's right wing.

* * *

It's dark out when Dean parks the Impala underneath a large elm tree just short of the cathedral. He kills the engine and just sits there for a minute gathering his thoughts. He had told Sammy he was gonna wait til tomorrow to do this and that he was gonna take his lanky brother with him but Dean just couldn't wait. So he's made up some lame excuse about needing some air and going to get beers for his Dr Sexy marathon. Of course he knew Sam didn't buy it but he didn't much care, in fact, it meant he wouldn't have to explain the disappearance of the lime green plastic bag that was currently sat on the passenger seat staring Dean down. He sighs, snatches the bag up and gets out of the car.

Having every intention of going in the same way that he did the previous day, through the mighty oak door, up the dust infected steps, Dean doesn't consider the possibility that it may be locked and so feels like shooting himself when he realises he didn't bring his lock picking kit. He doesn't give up though, tries his best with an old hair pin he keeps on him for situations like this but the attempt is futile, there's just no damn way he's opening that lock without specialist equipment. He curses – loudly – then decides that he's come all this way and tried so hard with that damn useless hairpin which is now misshapen on the ground from Dean's immature action of stamping on it, so nothing is stopping him from getting in that bell tower, nothing.

Keeping to the shadows he begins to make his way over to the other side of the tower with the very frail hope that whoever built this place had a thing for symmetry and there's a matching door on the other side. No dice though, alls that's on the other side is a rope dangling from the balcony and Dean almost gives up until something occurs to him.

_Wait! _Dean's mind screams at him, _Come on Dean-o we can use this, just scale the building using the rope and voila, were at the top__ and Cas's is window is officially our own personal cat flap._

Dean doesn't know when his mind had started talking to him like it was a separate entity from him but, okay, he'll take it, 'cause him mind is genius. With that thought, and another that tells him that this is a freaking ridiculous idea 'cause the last time he abseiled was at summer camp and that was not a good experience, he grips the rope and begins the climb to Cas's window.

_God, could this be any gayer? It's like a freakin' warped version of Rapunzel_.

* * *

Paris is particularly noisy tonight.

Through the slightly open window Castiel can hear the happy cheers of the townspeople, merry from the red wines and champagnes they consumed over their evening meals eaten in fancy restaurants, with warm lighting and romantic candles and soft music buzzing in the background, the likes of which the angel has never experienced.

He pulls the thin blanket up to his chin and turns on his side, back pressed to the wall, pillow placed firmly over his ears. He can still hear but somehow just the notion that he is making an effort to ignore the soundtrack of Paris's nightlife makes him feel a little better and after a short while the noises fade into a distant hum and unconsciousness creeps up on him, sympathetic, like death to the suffering.

It is not long before he is woken. Though it is not due to his impeccably accurate internal body clock (it is still dark) but rather a soft scraping sound of glass on stone. Bolting upright Castiel allows his wings to spread, stiffen, feathers bristled and he listens.

Someone is trying to get in.

Cautiously and quietly he rises from his bed, leaves the flimsy sheet to fall to the floor and tip toes across the space between his bed and Emmanuel, hides in the shadow of his favourite bell, waits. He focuses his ears on that particular spot in the tower, the place he knows the intruder to be. More scraping can be heard, followed by a wet slashing sound, silence, and then nothing more happens. Castiel dares to go further, breath held firmly in place at the back of his throat as his feet pass over the floorboards, smoothing over the creaks.

He slithers his way round the huge obstructing pillar and takes to the shadowed side of the corridor, moving slow but swift towards nearing corner which will lead him to his window.

He hears whispers. Castiel stops, listens with Grace enhanced hearing, heart thumping thick in his breast.

"Mother...fuck-shit-_son__ofabitch_!"

The curses are hushed but by no means any less passionate and Castiel feels relief flood through him and another emotion that is all too overwhelming pool in his stomach.

Dean.

"What are you doing here?"

Dean freezes in his action of wiping at his jeans and lifts his head, widened green eyes shining with the light of the moon gazing at Castiel.

"Uh, hi Cas..."

The angel blinks.

"Hello Dean." Silence.

"What are you doing here?" Castiel repeats, his eyebrows overly crumpled, for that truly is the question. Castiel cannot help but be utterly baffled at this late night visit, has a hard enough time comprehending the daytime visit Dean and Sam made yesterday when they talked and helped and cleaned.

But this. Castiel's socially virginal brain truly does not understand.

"Figured you could do with a few hours the out-of-this-world Dean Winchester experience. What with you being all Doris Day an all..."

Dean words trail off and he looks at Castiel's unchanged expression, his words immediately picking up a completely different trail, "...but I guess I figured wrong. I, yeah, I think I'll just take my leave right about now and go shimmy down this here rope..."

Dean is babbling as he turns to remove the window pane that has only just been replaced.

Castiel steps forward and lays a hand on his shoulder, he stills.

"No, please, stay. I merely did not understand your reference. Dean, what is a Dorisday?" He pronounces it like you would Sunday or Monday, his expression telling Dean that the angel is contemplating the possibility of their being an eighth day of the week and the hunter laughs affectionately and squashes down the urge to ruffle Cas's hair at the expression on his face as he explains that Doris Day is not a 'what?' but a 'who?'.

"I think I would very much like to watch Calamity Jane," the angel concludes after further explanation on Dean's part and widening of curious blue orbs on Castiel's. It figures that the reclusive (not by choice but, still) angel would be into musicals.

Dean chuckles, "Maybe one day Sammy will borrow you his DVD - Special 50th Anniversary Edition, 2 Disc."

Castiel is back to looking confused again but it doesn't last very long because he catches sight of the dark liquid stain on Dean's hand and remembers that he had been pressing said hand firmly against the place above the knee of his right leg when Castiel found him and hasn't moved it since.

"You're hurt!" He is fussing over Dean in a heartbeat, eyes wide, hands batting Deans own out of the way as he examines his leg. The angel doesn't hear his manly protests of indifference and being "just peachy" that are said through pain induced gritted teeth because he is talking over him and asking him if he can walk on it and Dean's protests die down as he replies defeatedly that no, he doesn't think he can.

Cas floats off with a promised BRB and goes all Dr. Angel on him, telling Dean to keep his hand pressed firmly against his wound and not to move it. Dean doesn't tell the angel that, yeah, he knows what to do 'cause he's been a freaking hunter since the womb and is used to injuries such as these - though usually ones inflicted by bad-ass demons and bitch witches with attitudes.

Naw, he doesn't say it 'cause, secretly? Dean likes the fussing.

Not that he would ever admit that, he'd key the side of his baby before ever admitting that. At least he thinks that's how it would go down.

Cas is back within seconds, a flurry of black wings which seem to be even more ruffled now that he is worried and he drapes Dean's arm round his shoulders and helps Dean hobble down the corridor and over to the bed.

"How did it happen?" he asks as he presses a cloth to Dean's leg to stem the bleeding and said hunter tries his best to stifle to gasp of pain that shoots up his throat.

"Caught it on a rusty nail on the way up..."

Castiel sighs, all heavenly breath blowing in Dean's face and says that "he needs to be more careful" and "why on earth is he here anyway?"

Dean shakes the green bag in front of the angel's face. "Brought you some supplies."

Castiel does his wide-eyed gazing thing for a while then, just stares into Dean's eyes for forever before it gets uncomfortable and Dean clears his throat and gestures to his leg to draw the angel's attention from his reddening face. It is hurting like a bitch, to be fair.

"Oh," Castiel looks down, "I apologize."

He sets his hands on Dean's leg and closes his eyes and Dean's face morphs into a wft? expression as Cas just sits there, eyes shut, breathing all deep like he's doing a weird sort of meditation, which maybe he is but Dean doesn't see how that's gonna help the situation.

"Uh Cas..." Castiel shushes him with a raised finger and Dean waits.

It a few seconds later that Dean's supposedly genius brain catches on. Cas is lighting up like a Christmas tree, freakin' glowing, looking all heaven-sent and holy and _glorious _and Dean realises that his feathered friend is healing him with his Grace and a wave of pure gratitude washes through him.

Then Cas lets go of his leg and Dean is amazed to find that, though there is a tear in his jeans and a great big blood stain there isn't a scratch on him. He's turns, grin in place, to thank the angel but stops short when he sees the poor guy practically passed out, head leaning against the frame of the bed. Dean figures that must have taken a lot out of him which makes him feel a helluva lot guilty but still a helluva lot grateful.

He slides his arms around Cas's waist and hauls the feather light – no pun intended – angel onto his bed and for the second time in two days he tucks the blanket under his chin and sweeps his hands through Cas's surreally soft hair.

Dean leaves the green bag on Cas's desk on his way out figuring the angel can thank him for it tomorrow, 'cause, yeah, Dean will be back.


	6. Damage

**A/N: ****EDIT:** Hi again! For those of you who read the first version of this chapter I am SO sorry, 'cause really, it was a train wreck. But because I was so unhappy with this chapter and my amazing, amazing, amazing best friend pointed out that there were holes all over the place I went back and changed it up a little – well, maybe a lot but the basic plot is the same, I think. So the first version had Cas up and ready to do karaoke – err what? And Dean was ok with this? No, it was ridiculous.

So this new and (hopefully) greatly improved version of Chapter 6 should be a lot more believable and if it isn't then I suck :P

Enjoy :)

Oh and - Dean and Sam are in France 'cause...well they just _are_. I dunno, I guess we could just, yanno, shake SPN up a bit and say that the Winchesters are French? Haha.

EDIT: Present for you Angel Of Notre Dame fans (remove the spaces): http : / i53 . tinypic . com/ r7is13 . jpg

* * *

_**Chapter Six**_

_Damage_

Over the next few weeks Dean and Sam visit Castiel almost every day and the angel is more than grateful for their company. Usually, they sit and talk; the Winchester's tell Castiel of ghosts and demons, rogue angels and ghouls and all the other supernatural beings that they so frequently have to take care of. Castiel talks of his life in the bell tower, albeit there isn't much to tell, but the brothers sit and listen to the tales all the same. Castiel remembers the look on Dean's face when he told him he hasn't ever spoke to a woman much less 'been' with one; it was then that he promised the angel that he wouldn't let him die a virgin and assured him that Dean Winchester never disappointed when it came to promises. Castiel looked nervous at that and Sam guffawed over in the corner, mumbling something about 'wrong end of the stick'. The angel didn't quite understand.

Sometimes life gets in the way of the growing friendship between the three of them, however, which means that the brothers cannot always be around. Nevertheless, if they don't visit then Dean calls Castiel on his brand new shiny cell phone. Castiel had woke up the day after Dean's night visit and found the phone in a green bag on his desk along with a rather large packet of peanut M&M's. The device is nothing special, Dean assured him of this, but it is enough that when Castiel feels saddened by the lack of Winchester company during the day, he has something to look forward to when the night takes over and he is lay in bed.

The first time Dean had called him was just to say 'hi' and to check that the angel was still alive; Castiel had found that odd but had answered the question nonetheless, of course he was alive. Then the phone had rang a second time and Dean had called to say 'hi again' and that he wasn't going to be coming to the bell tower that day because they had to take care of a poltergeist in Lyons.

The angel's voice had gone noticeably quiet during that conversation and that was when Dean had said that he would call him later and they could talk for a while, and thus, it became a tradition that Dean would squeeze him in whenever they were too busy to show up.

It is during this thought process, this re-thinking of how the calls came around that the small device buzzes against Castiel's knuckles where it is perched on the desk.

He snatches it up and hears Dean's low voice on the other end.

"Cas, were coming up. Get the glasses out, it's party time!"

The connection is broken before Castiel can utter so much as a 'hello' and the angel is left mouth open, phone to his ear for a moment or two until he finally processes the information. The glasses Dean had mentioned are in the cupboard under the sink, three sparkling clear shot glasses that are forever accompanied by a bottle of thick brown liquor that Castiel finds he isn't much a fan of. According to Dean it is 'the best damn alcohol ever to sear a man's throat'. Castiel disagrees, fervently.

In spite of this, Dean gets him to drink some again today, two glasses instead of one this time and Castiel's eyes water with the stench let alone the burn of it running like acid down the back of his throat. It does take away some of the pain in his ribs from Raphael's latest beating though and he is glad for that.

"Well Feathers," Dean says, clapping a coarse palm on his shoulder, "Looks like you do have a taste for the strong stuff after all. Sammy, hit him again."

Sammy pours and so it continues.

The brothers stay with Castiel all day that day, drinking shots and laughing loudly, oblivious to the events that lie ahead.

* * *

It is Halloween.

Castiel is on his balcony, staring down at the crowds of people that have gathered to set up stalls and tents and a large stage in time for tonight's festival. The Festival of Fools they call it and Castiel knows it to be a huge event where males dress as scary, gory creatures, ladies try to outdo each other by wearing as little amount of clothes as possible and everyone comes together to dance, drink and sing. Loudly.

He watches a group of young people setting up the haunted house and sighs, how he really wishes he was down there with them, setting up, taking part, hell, even getting drunk would be fun for him despite the last time when Dean had to all but carry him to his bed due to his sudden lack of balance. But the Festival of Fools would be a change of scenery, a chance to experience new things, something more from the world other than this stone tower.

He is voicing these foolish desires down the phone to Dean whilst sat on the edge of his bed when Raphael walks in and Castiel fumbles, flips the phone shut and hurriedly pushes it under his pillow before he can see. The archangel strides over to him, eyebrow arched in disapproval.

"Who are you talking to Castiel?" His tone is dangerous and Castiel swallows a lump in his throat, he doesn't have an answer for his master and he panics, eyes darting around for inspiration.

He gestures behind him, out the window.

"The gargoyles," he says unthinkingly and winces internally.

Raphael eyes him suspiciously, squints as he takes a seat at Castiel's desk and pulls out a bunch of grapes. The feathers of his wings sharpen, "Castiel, gargoyles are made of stone. Can stone talk?"

"No, master. It cannot."

"Good. You are smart enough to know that much." He pops a grape into his mouth and gestures for Castiel to join him. The angel obeys, goes and takes a seat opposite Raphael and stares longingly at the expanse of the impressive white wings that stretch out behind him.

"Shall we commence with the revision of your alphabet?"

The angel nods.

* * *

Castiel is climbing down the rope, still unsure of this plan, later that night.

After three shots Dean has somehow managed to persuade him to go to the Festival of Fools. Apparently, he had been thinking after Castiel's phone call and had come up with the conclusion that Halloween would be the perfect cover for Castiel's unique wings – they can pass them off as a very realistic, very original angel costume. Castiel, truthfully, had been thinking the same thing that morning; if there is ever going to be a time when he can walk amongst the public unnoticed it will be tonight. It is rather perfect opportunity and, as Dean pointed out, Castiel shouldn't just throw it away - which is why he's currently scaling the side of the cathedral. But he doesn't quite know what he's getting himself into and his stomach is flip-flopping as he inches closer to the floor. If Raphael were to find him amongst these people, out of his tower, he would...well, Castiel doesn't know but he knows for certain it would result in shouting and anger and _pain_. He shudders, maybe he should go back. It isn't too late; he can easily climb the rope back to the top. Can slip in the window and go to his room, breathe in the familiar metallic scent of the bells and slide into his bed and be safe.

But he doesn't want to.

This is just one night, just one night where he can enjoy himself, can be free of his tower and have some fun.

Can be normal. And that's all Castiel has ever wanted.

So he tries to stop the fear of being discovered from taking over him and continues down the rope; after all, he has been out of the tower before and not been caught. Why should tonight be any different? Why should this one night that he so desperately wants to experience be any different?

"Cas! Hurry you're feathered ass up and get down here before the Teenage Mutant Ninja Angel decides to turn up." Dean shout-whispers up to him and Castiel quickens his pace. It isn't easy scaling a building at the best of times; he's done it before, of course, so he isn't completely hopeless. But when his hands are shaking with nerves and his head is swimming with thoughts of Raphael appearing, white wings raging, he finds that it is much easier to lose his grip and footing. Although when that does happen and his foot slips he finds that Dean's steady hands appear at his sides to stop him from swaying as he reaches the ground. He thanks him and smoothes himself over.

"Okay, where to first?" Sam asks when they reach the town's square. Castiel is a little overwhelmed; there are hundreds of people, stood packed together, dancing and eating and laughing and there are bright lights in a range of colours wherever he turns. The angel doesn't know where to look or what to try out first.

"Dunno man, but that blonde chick with the beamers over by the Hook-A-Duck is totally checking me out." Dean suggests, nodding at said woman and winking. Sam sighs, grabs his brother by the arm and drags him in the completely opposite direction of the Hook-A-Duck stand, telling Castiel to follow – he does, staying close behind the two for fear of getting lost in the masses of people.

They arrive at a stall selling masks and Sam asks Castiel to choose one. He supposes this is to stop him from standing out further and Dean confirms this when he tells him that no-one would go to a Halloween festival wearing an angel costume that consists only of wings. Castiel nods and looks at the assortment of masks in front of him; there's dozens of them, some small, some large, some scary, some pretty, in all different colours and fabrics and really, he doesn't know where to start.

"How about this one, Cas?" Dean picks up a deep blue satin mask. It's one from the collection that fits over the eyes, leaving the rest of the face exposed and Castiel can't help but notice that Dean picks the one in the colour that best matches his wings.

"Sammy, why didn't you tell me we were going to a party with The Mask of Zorro?" Dean comments as he adjusts Castiel's mask. The angel's eyebrow goes up at this but he doesn't question him, he is used to Dean's never-ending references to TV shows and movies and famous people - and he is used to not understanding them. Dean laughs at his expression nonetheless and Sam buys the mask.

The three of them press on, heading for the crowds, Castiel all but stuck to Dean's back.

They visit numerous stalls and tents, take a peek in the surprisingly dismal haunted house, buy hot dogs and cheeseburgers and beers and Castiel thinks that if he never has another night like this for the rest of his life it won't matter because right now, with Dean and Sam at his side and the crisp night air nipping at his cheeks and the cheesy taste of the burger still in his mouth, it is enough to last him this lifetime and the next and maybe even the one after that.

The angel doesn't realise when it happens. One moment he is gripping the back of Dean's jacket as they push their way through the crowd and the next he's holding on to thin air and he is being jostled away from the two brothers - he doesn't think Dean has noticed because he hasn't turned round. So, trying his best not to panic, Castiel begins to squeeze through the tiny gaps between sweat drenched bodies and heads for the direction of Dean and Sam. People, he finds, are very stubborn when it comes to giving up their space, even if only for a few seconds in order to let someone through, so Castiel ends up stuck in the middle of the masses with no easy way out.

"It's time to pick a winner for Best Costume everyone!" A stout man dressed as a jester stood in the centre of the stage screams into a microphone.

Castiel looks around helplessly to try and get his bearings back; he is much closer to the stage than he was previously, there are at least twenty rows of people between himself and the open space at the back of the crowd and he doesn't think he can get through that amount of people even if he did have Dean's jacket to grip onto.

The man stood next to him is talking in his ear as Castiel flails around in full panic mode. He can't decipher what he is saying and truthfully, he doesn't really care, he just wants to get back to Dean and Sam and safety.

"You should...up there...get your prize, man..." is all he distinguishes and before he can tell the man that he really cannot hear him above the roar of the crowd, hands are pushing him forwards, towards the stage and Castiel is powerless to stop them.

It is a short distance to the front of the crowd and Castiel finds himself being dragged up a set of steps by at least five different pairs of hands and then the jester is hauling him into the middle of the stage and Castiel is facing the crowd of people who are roaring at him and clapping reverently. He is more than a little bewildered and he doesn't know what to do, really he doesn't, so he just stands there stock still scanning the crowd for Dean or Sam as the jester shouts some more into the microphone.

"Is this our winner?" Castiel hears him say and then a louder roar of appreciation sounds through the air and Castiel is being ushered to the front of the stage and the jester is talking to him.

"Zachariah," he says and extends a hand towards him. Castiel takes it and shakes, just like Dean had taught him. "Tell me kid, what's your name and where did you get such an amazing costume?"

A microphone is pushed into his face and Castiel just ignores it and continues staring out to the crowd, searching. He sees men and women and children, faces eyeing him curiously, waiting for his answer but he doesn't care, he needs to find Dean. He's about to give up hope of ever spotting them when he sees Sam's lanky frame bounding through the throngs of people, Dean elbowing his way through behind him.

Castiel feels the weight lift from his chest – _they're coming._

Everything from that point onwards seems to occur in slow motion for the angel, he can see the pigeons flying above them all in a V formation, can see Dean's determined face as he and Sam power through the crowd and he can see Zachariah's hand as it reaches out to grip his left wing. Castiel's body goes tense with shock as the meaty hand closes around bone and flesh and feathers and pulls ever so slightly to get his attention. His wing twitches violently underneath Zachariah's hand and Castiel can see the faces in the crowd go white with shock as they realise that no, this is no costume, this is real, Castiel is real and he is something they've never encountered before.

Zachariah turns to him, hand still firmly on his wing; his face is a mask of astonishment as he pulls again, harder. This time Castiel flaps his wing aggressively in defence, feathers whipping the air, bone colliding harshly, with a sickening crunch, against Zachariah's body hard enough that he flies across the stage and slams into the wall. Castiel watches, eyes huge, as his body slides lifelessly to the floor and blood seeps down the side of the jesters face.

A split second of silence.

The bristle of feathers.

A glimpse of large white wings retreating to the back of the crowd.

Dean's face one of panic and determination as he and Sammy finally reach the stage and begin to climb.

He knew this would happen.

"It's the monster from the bell tower!"

With these words the silence is broken and the crowd surges forward.

Castiel only has a fraction of a second before hands are all over him, gripping him, clawing at his clothes like pack animals and he's screaming Dean's name at the top of his lungs. He can't see through the wall of bodies pressed up against him, closing him in a circle of hate filled words and wounding blows but he dares to hope that if he screams loud enough he will hear.

Dean _has_ to hear.

Castiel can handle it for now, can take the pain and the abuse of punches and detestable saliva drenched babble leaving the people's lips but then someone grabs his wing and he is in a frenzy.

_Oh Father, no, please no!_

Castiel's eyes roll back in their sockets as the pain sweeps through him, with that first tug at his wings, like a knife cutting through butter.

They are touching _his wings_, not just touching but _tearing._

He can feel the insensitive hands diving into them, gripping at the root of his feathers, pinching at the flesh beneath them and pulling hard, so very hard, until the feathers rip away from the skin, leaving gruesome, bloody holes in his wings. Over and over he can feel it, the unbearable pain, the slice of knife like hands. He can't take it; he feels the loss of every feather like a human would feel the loss of a limb and as each raven plume is yanked out and his wings are shredded to nothing but blood soaked flesh, Castiel howls in torture.

It lasts for what feels like years. He is pushed to the ground, stamped on, punched, kicked over and over, his feathers are continuously slashed from his wings, his hair is pulled, his face is throbbing, his legs are shattered, his spine aches from the pounding of heavy boots smacking against it, his arms are sliced open, someone must have had a knife...

...and then finally, finally he blacks out.


	7. Comatose

**_A/N: _**_Hi guys :) It's been a while since my last update, I know, but things are gonna get real hectic now with college back on ¬.¬ - so I'm thinking maybe a chapter every couple days..._

_Yeah, this is Chapter 7 incase y'all didn't know already and it's fairly lacking in action but there's oodles of planning and plotting and just yeah, read and you shall see ;)_

_Enjoy, and thanks to everyone who reviewed my last chapter. Sorry Cas had to get so hurt – poor baby :( - but it was essential to the plot so...forgive me?_

_

* * *

_

**_Chapter Seven_**

_Comatose_

Castiel is having a nightmare.

He is certain of this because he isn't in his tower cleaning his bells.

He is on a stage being ravaged by humans; humans of all variations, male and female, old and young are plunging their hands into his sensitive wings and ripping out feathers and Castiel cannot feel the pain and the images are blurry and it just isn't possible for him to be out of his tower.

Therefore this, he tells himself, is merely a result of his overactive imagination supplying him with a grotesque perception of the human species due to his fear of the unknown; his fear of being rejected and hated by society if he were to eventually be a part of it one day.

So Castiel doesn't worry when his vision clears for a split second enough to catch sight of his right wing: he doesn't worry as he takes in the bloodied mess of the exposed flesh, flesh that is supposed to be covered by the shimmering black feathers which are now scattered haphazardly in bloody pools about his body. He doesn't worry when he feels, rather than hears, the loud bang of a shotgun, sees the bullet cut swiftly through the air above his head and the faces of the crowd, blurry as they are, turn into masks of silent screams as they part and leave his crumpled body in peace.

Or pieces, rather.

A shadow approaches, dark and sturdy, with short spikes of hair and rough hands, flanked by another shadow of the long-limbed, floppy haired kind and steady hands reach down cautiously to hang on to him. A pained sound escapes the shadow's lips as it lean's down towards Castiel's face.

He is aware of nothing much after that, nothing of much significance anyway, except that his body is being moved, lifted upwards by some unknown force and for a fleeting moment he thinks he has died and is floating up to the Gates of his Father's home, but then his body rests as it reaches a certain height, safe in two strong arms, cradled against a firm chest as he is carried through the streets of Paris. His vision gradually fades back to black and the nightmare is over.

* * *

Dean encounters a problem when he's finally climbed the Steps of Death and, panting, face redder than a freakin' tomato, he reaches the door of Castiel's room. It's a very big problem too, of epic proportions . . . the sigils.

It seems that as well as keeping the angel trapped inside the upper quarters of the tower, they also keep him out. Sam had opened the door and walked through – standard procedure when entering a room, no? - but when Dean tried to do the same the most he could do was let his foot say peek-a-boo to the bells before an invisible wall slammed into his chest, sending him flying backwards. It became pretty freakin' apparent after the third time landed on his ass with Cas bundled and whimpering in his arms that the angel couldn't pass through the doorway.

_Well shit._

He briefly toyed with the idea of getting Cas in through the window but that plan was shot down rapidly due to a slight hitch: they couldn't get the angel up to the balcony - he's seen the Disney version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame and _no way_ is it as easy to swing from buildings with a fully grown person on your back as Quassy made it look. Plus, this fully grown person has wings – huge freakin' wings that are in terrible shape and are in desperate need of attention, though Dean has no clue what kind, he'd never got his hands on a _How to Mend an__ Angel'__s W__ings for Beginners_ book. The point is, even with both he and Sammy the Sasquatch combined, there is no way in Heaven or Hell they're gonna be able to haul Cas up the side of a building. And he doesn't much fancy the idea of squishing the poor bastard through a window back into that suffocating tower either.

"Shit Sammy, what're we gonna do?" Dean _really_ wants to shout in frustration right about now but he catches himself when he remembers Cas – poor guy's sleeping against Dean's chest, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness – and instead whispers it theatrically, face twisted in anger. Sam bites his lip as he looks at the angel then turns his puppy-like eyes to Dean and gives him that look, the _c'mon Dean there's only one thing we can do and its really, really obvious _look. Dean sighs and nods, "To Bobby's it is then."

Its four hours before they reach Bobby's junkyard out in the country and pull up outside the huge, practically empty house. Four painstaking hours of Dean driving for the most part like the Impala had turned into Marty McFly's souped-up DeLorean DMC-12, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching over the seat and clutching Cas's wrist, eyes constantly flicking to the rear-view mirror to check the angel was still breathing. Sam had to tell him more times than he could count on both hands to chill out, already. Panicking, apparently, wasn't getting them anywhere and so Dean had eventually relented and eased off the gas a smidgen. His hand stayed curled round Cas's wrist though and he didn't stop checking the mirror.

Bobby is waiting for them on the porch when they arrive, says he's got the bed in the spare room upstairs set up for the angel and Dean and Sam carry him, Dean with his torso, Sammy with his legs, up the brown carpeted steps and into the first room on the right. They lay Cas on the bed as gently as possible but the slight jerk when Dean removes himself from underneath the angel cannot be helped and it causes a cry of pain to sweep through his bruised and bloody lips. Dean bites down on his own lip to stop from crying, really, the angel is in terrible shape, really freakin' terrible shape and Dean is worried, more worried than he has ever been about anyone save for his family before and that scares the bajeezus outta him on its own. Not to mention that he's harbouring a whole big steaming pile of guilt for having been the one who convinced Cas to go all Great Escape in the first place - but he's trying his best not to think about that, trying to push it to the deepest darkest corner of his mind which until now he's reserved for fuck-ups like letting that shtriga get hold of Sam when he was a kid and being unable to stop his Dad from sacrificing himself to save Dean's sorry ass. He thinks this new addition to the list though, could be one of his more severe fuck-ups so far and he really isn't prepared to hang with his ultimate best friend Guilt right now. He needs to focus on getting Cas better and begging for his holy forgiveness because, while his idea resulted in these horrific consequences, his intentions has been entirely good , he'd convinced Castiel to go to the festival so that he could have some fun, gain life experience and all that hoo-ha.

He sighs and gets to work, gingerly helping Sam splay out the broken wings so that they aren't crumpled in on themselves or stuck under Castiel's comatose body, careful not to pull too hard or touch any extra-sensitive looking parts. Bobby brings all the first aid equipment he's got, which is a pretty damn lot, and the brother's start patching up the wings; Dean does the right one because it's the one that's more severely broken, the bone jutting out from the flesh and skin and weirdly, he feels that this is his responsibility, Cas is his responsibility. It's a hard job, understandably, and Cas moans and jerks and churns out bloodcurdling screams continuously as Dean eases the bones back into place and seals the gaping holes with heaps of bandage and gauze. When it's done and Cas's wings are mummified they move onto his body. Dean gasps a lot during that process, angry gasps as he surveys the absolute destruction _humans _have been responsible for. As he cleans up each new found wound, a stab to the angels shoulder, a slash along his right collar bone, a particularly dark scattering of bruises along his hip, Dean's anger builds up until he can feel it bubbling in the back of his throat, hotter than the fires of Hell.

Eventually and finally, they finish cleaning Cas up and Dean takes a step back from the bed and stands in the middle of the room. It was inevitable that he would get blood on his hands and Dean knows that, but he can't help the revulsion he feels as he looks down at the stark red of it staining his hands; the irony of it makes him feels sick, 'cause hadn't he just been thinking that, metaphorically, he has Cas's blood on his hands? Yeah, and now he definitely has, only for real and as he stands in the middle of the bedroom staring down at the crimson liquid his stomach churns and the bottom of it gives way and Dean rushes to the bathroom.

He emerges again when there's no nothing left inside of him but sharp pains twisting through his mid-section from heaving and makes his way to the kitchen where Bobby and Sam are sat at the table.

"You tellin' me that I'm gonna be havin' another house guest pretty damn soon and it's gonna be a royally pissed off archangel?" Bobby's face is incredulous and Sam looks sheepish as he nods. _Looks like Sam's broke the news about Cas's Grace tracking device__, _Dean thinks as he scrapes a chair back from the table and flops down into it.

"Tell me you found away to torch the son of a bitch Bobby, even if it's only temporary..." Dean says, looking hopefully at the older hunter. Bobby's jaw tightens and he gets up from the table, two sets of Winchester eyes following him. He goes into his study and returns with an ancient looking book decorated with so much dust Dean thinks it might have been stuck in that tower with Cas for all it's life. He opens it about halfway in and points to a black and white sketch of what looks like an archangel holding a long pointed sword, kinda like a jousting stick, Dean thinks, but shorter. It is pure white from what Dean can see, and it seems to glow, much like he pictured angels to do when he was a kid and didn't know about the real angels, the ones that emerged and integrated in with the humans hundreds of years ago. Which don't glow one little bit – mammoth disappointment.

"This sword will kill an archangel-" Bobby says.

"Good, how do we get hold of it?" Dean can't help the utter hope that seeps into his voice.

"Slow down ya idjit," Bobby chastises, "It will kill an archangel but, only if it's stabbed by another archangel."

Dean swears under his breath, figures it would be too good to be true. Still, there's possibility in the idea; surely Raphael isn't the only archangel floating about. Maybe they can get their hands on a summoning spell and drag one of them feathery suckers down here to gank Big Bird, though it does seem unlikely. 'Cause whoever comes, if they do, would essentially be asked to kill one of their brothers and seeing as Cas has never met another of his brothers aside from Raphael, it's doubtful that they'll side with him and torch the mighty and powerful Raph to save his 'tainted' ass. Dean feels that anger bubble up again, only this time directed at the so-called-holy fuckers who all turned their back on Castiel. The injustice of the whole guy's life sparks fury in Dean like nothing else and he's beginning to worry that at some point he won't be able to control it.

"There _is_ a temporary solution," Bobby pipes up and Dean motions for him to go on. "Those sigils you sent me pictures of, well there's different kinds: one's to trap angels, one's to summon them and one's to banish them."

"You got examples of these sigils Bobby? Proof that they work, we can't just go on faith alone 'cause I'm tellin' ya, that Raphael is gonna be pissed when he gets here and he's a powerful son of a bitch. We won't stand a freakin' snowballs chance against him if the sigils don't hold up."

Bobby turns the pages of the book and points out another picture. Sam scoots the book over to him and Dean and they survey the mass of symbols garnishing the double page spread. There's little clippings of text next to each one with directions on how they have to be done and how long they last. The banishing one is fairly straightforward, it can be drawn on any surface with any material and it lasts for a whole week. Okay, so in the big scheme of things a week is piss but it's _something_ at least.

"I think," Sam starts, "that we should put theses all over the house. It says we have to touch the sigil when the angel's near in order for it to work so-"

"Hold up Sammy," Dean cuts him off, voice cold with realisation. The text also says that the sigil will banish _all _angels within the radius. Dean's not the sharpest tool in the box but even he knows that that includes Cas. "Cas has to do it."

"What?" Sam and Bobby say at the same time, twin expressions of confusion on their faces.

"Says here _all _angels will be banished 'cept for the angel who touches the sigil, so I'm willing to bet that if we go round palming up the damn things Cas is gonna go poof as well as dear old Raph. The only solution is for Cas to be the one to banish him." Dean explains, slightly proud of himself for being the only one who cottoned on.

"But Castiel is comatose Dean. And even if he were conscious I can't see him being well enough to banish an angel, it _also_ says here that touching a sigil takes a lot of energy. Dean, we take any more energy from the guy and he'll be dead." Sam's worried face takes over his confused face and Dean slams his fist on the table.

"This is shit! Bobby, is there anything else? Anything at all to keep the bastard out?" Dean's tone is desperate and his eyes are pleading with the older hunter's.

"I'm sure I saw...hang on a sec." Bobby goes to his study again, takes his sweet time too, and returns with an even thicker, older looking book. He flips a few pages, skips a whole section on Angel Abilities and stops at a loose page with various symbols printed on it. He scans the text then looks up at the two waiting brothers. "Thought so, says here these sigils keep angels from entering places, specifically archangels, but it has to be a place on hallowed ground and it don't last too long either."

He shoves the book across the table and Dean begins to scour the page. It's a combination of 6 sigils, quite tricky bastards too, all which have to be drawn in blood and in a place on hallowed ground. If done correctly no archangel will be able to enter the building for 3 dawns - a full 72 hours. There doesn't seem to be any drawbacks to this one, aside from the hallowed-ground-has-to-be-drawn-in-blood thing but Dean thinks they can work something out with that; surely there's a church or something around here that they can hole up in for a few days while they try and figure out what to do for a permanent solution? The blood. . .well, yeah that _might_ be a problem. It doesn't give specifics but Dean can't see say, goat's blood, doing the trick against an archangel; he's willing to bet that by morning him and Sammy will have nearly bled themselves dry drawing these things.

"Well, it's our only chance. Sammy, get your Google on: I want you to search out every abandoned church within a 20 mile radius, we don't have enough time to make it any further." Sam nods and fires up his laptop.

Dean turns to Bobby, "Don't suppose you wanna be charitable and loan us some supplies? Say food, blankets – that kinda shit..." Bobby raises an eyebrow.

Dean grins as Bobby heads for the kitchen with a muffled "audacious little idjit".

* * *

An hour later and the Impala is stuffed with supplies and Castiel is spread out in the backseat covered in blankets. Sam had managed to track down an old church a couple hours away and Bobby had loaned them as many spare quilts as he could find, old gas lamps and lots of food. The old hunter, not all too comfortable with angels, had turned down the offer of 'come with?' and so had tried to help out as much as he could in other ways – like getting his hands on a jackpot load of morphine for Sam and Dean when they eventually have to go emo and shed blood. Dean thinks it'll come in handy when Cas is conscious and the pain starts too so he vows not to be selfish and save the angel some.

They hit the road after thanking Bobby more times than the old hunter deemed necessary. Sam said he'd drive to give Dean a break and so the passenger seat remains empty as the Impala speeds through the roads; Dean opted to sit in the backseat with Castiel.

The angels head is resting on his chest, Dean is running his fingers through the angel's hair and Sam swears he can hear him talking to him softly every so often but he can't be sure. Dean isn't usually like this though, he has to admit he's noticed the changes over the past weeks; his brother smiles more, has become a lot calmer than he was previously, left behind some of his irrational hunting ways and – to Sam's intense dismay – has become more open to sharing his feelings, though still, Dean isn't exactly on the list of Oscar winners for Most Emotional Male.

At least not unless it comes to Castiel. . .and Sam isn't sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

Hell, they're going up against an _archangel_ for this angel, this weird little recluse angel who Dean's taken a shine to. Surely no good can come of this friendship – and Sam uses that term loosely – it's more than likely that they'll be toast by morning when that big feathery guy catches up with them, but then Sam can't deny that he wouldn't deprive Dean of this little bit of happiness he's found with the angel for anything in the world. For too long Dean has been putting everyone else before himself and it's the nicest thing in the world for Sam to see his brother be a bit selfish for once, although, admittedly holing up in a church and harbouring an angel fugitive of sorts isn't exactly selfish – no doubt Dean's thinking of Cas's well being before his own. Sam smiles at that, yeah _friendship_ is a term he thinks he's always gonna use loosely when referring to Dean and Castiel.

The church is most definitely abandoned to Dean's relief; it's embedded in at least four feet of tall grass, ivy leaves creeping up it's once white walls. There's two entrances, one at the front that seems to be the main and a smaller hidden one at the back that Dean dares to hope could be useful if they need to make a quick escape. Fat chance of that working when they have an archangel tracking them though. The stained glass windows, amazingly, are still intact – three large ones on either side of the church and one smaller one on the tower that rises up from the left side of the church. It's pretty run down, despite the features of doors and windows though and Dean will bet his sweet ass that it's freezing, damp and stinky. Which, really, is what he was expecting but not what he _wanted_.

Sam's inside already, checking out the space and setting out some blankets to lay Cas on and Dean is unloading the trunk. When he's done he takes the stuff to the entrance and leaves them by the door for Sammy to pick up and take in. The Impala needs to be hidden, he isn't taking any chances of being found by anyone. On the off chance that Raphael can only sense the general location of where Cas is, doubtful as it is, Dean wants to make sure that he doesn't catch sight of his baby. Chevy Impala in mint condition parked outside a crumbling abandoned church just screams suspicious. He parks it round the back, hidden completely when looking from the front and then calls for Sam to come help him get Cas. His brother comes around from the front and the two haul the angel out of the back seat and into the darkened church. Inside is pretty much what Dean expected, apart from the damp aspect – the place is pretty dry, which is awesome. The altar has been ripped out and most of the pews save for about 5 too, the carpet is still intact which, again is awesome, and the place is fairly insulated considering its abandoned and looks like it's been empty since the freakin' prehistoric times. Overall, it's a decent enough place to sit tight for a few days.

Sam has set up a mound of blankets over in corner and they carry Cas over, lay him down gently and cover him with a couple more blankets. Dean's worried now; the angel has been unconscious for far too long and his skin is deathly pale and freezing to the touch. If he doesn't wake up soon he doesn't think he ever will and that doesn't sit well with Dean at all, not at all.

"Dean, it's getting light out. I don't think there's much time before Raphael goes in the tower and notices it's extremely lacking in Castiel."

Dean nods and grabs one of the many bags Sammy had brought in. He rummages and unloads until set out before him is the paper with the sigils, two freshly sharpened bowie knives, the majority of Bobby's remaining first aid kit, the morphine and a bottle of Jack.

"We're in for one hell of a night Sammy."


	8. The Ice Beings To Thaw

**_A/N__: _**_I owe you guys the __**biggest **__apology ever. It has been, well, ages since I last updated and I'm SO sorry but _so _much has happened in the past couple of weeks and it__'__s just been extremely crazy._

_I'm hoping to Chuck that there's still people way out in the distance that can hear my pleading calls of sorry and will come back and read Chapter 8._

_Enjoy dear readers, enjoy :)_

_And__ thanks for all the reviews so far, as always__ you guys are made of awesome!__ :')

* * *

_

**_Chapter Eight_**

_The Ice Begins To Thaw_

The brothers have barely finished the last sigil when the walls start vibrating furiously, little bits of stone crumbling from the ceiling covering the whole church in a haze of dust. A high pitch screech pierces the air accompanied by the brightest white light either of them has ever seen and the brothers promptly cover their ears with their hands and strain their eyes to see past the tears collecting on their eyelashes.

"You think he's pissed?" Dean shouts over the continuous screeching and rumbling. His brother doesn't grace him with an answer simply grabs Dean's wrist and wrenches him out of the way of an ageing marble statue of the Virgin Mary that's hurtling dangerously towards his head. It lands with a shattering thud causing a mushroom cloud of dust to consume the room.

Coughing and spluttering, he thanks his baby bro and attempts to survey the scene to get a better idea of what they're dealing with here. However, through the dull white Dean can't see much at all. There's a black blob which he knows to be the broken piano over by the once-was alter but he can't make out much more save for a piercing red glow coming from the direction of the back of the church. He stumbles over fallen statues and overturned pews to the back wall and realises that the sigils are emitting this light. He studies them curiously: each one is standing out in a stark crimson contrast against the vast backdrop of white dust, the edges of them glowing with a fierce light and they seem to be pulsating, alive. It's eerie, to say the least.

Dean figures they must be doing their job though; if the angelic earthquake is anything to go by he'd say Featherbrains hasn't been able to get past them and in his pretty damn pissed off state he's using the scare tactic. Oh yeah, 'cause Dean's really quaking in his size 11 Doc Martins.

The colossal sound of stone crumbling overhead grabs his attention and Sam beckons him over to where Cas is lay sprawled out on the floor, a bundle of blankets and bandages. Gas lamps surround him, lighting him up and making his skin look even more sallow, the bloodstained bandages a harsh contrast against it. It becomes apparent that the tower is the source of the deep rumbling sound of falling stone and to Dean's intense fucking dismay, he realises that Cas' little camp site is set up directly underneath it.

Sam, brain as well as brawn, realises this before him; he's extinguished the gas lamps and is gripping two corners of the blankets underneath the comatose angel, motioning for Dean to hurry the fuck up with the realisation, already and grab the other two.

Dean swings into action as a tremendous bang erupts above them sending stone and more dust cascading down on them and leaving the ceiling with a nice jagged crack that threatens to give way any second.

Lifting the angel, who is a lot damn heavier with the added weight of almost every blanket that previously occupied Bobby's place, they move slow and steady over to the alter space, dodging falling statues and lumps of stone. The church is a real big mess and Dean's just happy that they didn't light any candles and that Sam put out the gas lamps 'cause he's pretty sure those withering velvet curtains would've gone up in flames faster than he could count to three and then they really would've been toasted, literally.

As it stands, Dean thinks they still have a fighting chance. Sure the church has the whole Apocalypse feel to it right now, what with the walls trembling like their freakin' freezing in the winter cold and the dust clogging up the air, but this is far from over . Dean thinks of it as a battle of wills; Raphael's gonna be keeping this up for a while but he'll get tired eventually, its gotta be draining a helluva lot of his energy to keep up the Shakin' Stevens act but there ain't a chance in Hell that he and Sammy are waving the white flag of surrender.

Surviving this is all about tactics and they've decided that their best option is to stay away from the left tower that's currently threatening to fall through the roof. They head for the vestry to the right side of the alter. Dean supposes the walls might be thicker and the roof has a better chance of holding out due to the lack of a tower on top of it.

Once inside they find the walls here aren't as affected by the archangel's tremor and the screeching sound is dulled considerably, the room is also larger than anticipated. Its square, wide and open, though various broken pieces of furniture clutter the space. Dean notices several old chairs strewn across the room, missing legs and backrests and a few old garments speckled about the floor. There's also a large alcove in the east wall with a ratty curtain pulled across it; he figures it used to be a bed back in the times of King Arthur or something roughly as far back in history as him and his round table, but from what he can see it's been most recently used as a storage place. Nonetheless, it's the perfect place to lay Cas down and the brothers lug him over, huffing and puffing with his weight and heave him into the alcove.

Dean bundles the blankets around the angel, rolls one up and uses it as a sort of makeshift pillow to prop his head up. He brushes back the locks of dark hair that are clinging to Cas's forehead and feels for his temperature; the angel is stone cold and Dean's worry makes itself known in the pit of his stomach once again. He rubs his hands together to get some warmth in them before pressing them to the angel's face; Cas' skin is icy beneath his palms as he smoothes them over his cheeks, cupping them ever so slightly. "Come on Cas, open your eyes..." he breathes ever so slightly, sending a silent prayer up to whatever big guy there is up in the sky, begging him to make Castiel ok again.

* * *

Sam is pottering around the room, probably looking for something and Dean is sat next to Castiel's improvised bed on one of the many chairs that were scattered around the room – one that survived whatever went down here and is merely a little wobbly. He's biting his nails, a terrible habit he'd managed to give up a long time ago, back when he was a kid and resolved that nerves just didn't sit well with him, when he just up and decided that Dean Winchester wasn't going to be nervous anymore. As he sits there, chewing on his thumbnail, Sam trying to figure out a way to stop the rumbling and get the archangel to just fuck off already, Cas begins to stir. His eyes flicker open and closed, open and closed before they settle somewhere in between; Dean hasn't noticed because he's staring intently into nothingness. Castiel opens his mouth determined to get the hunter's attention. A groan escapes his lips and Dean's eyes instantly flick over in his direction, gaze landing straight on Castiel's own, relief rushing through them. For what seems like hours but is likely only a few seconds the two just stare at each other, Dean's face a vision of mixed emotions: guilt, anxiety, sorrow, _relief: _Castiel gazing back at him looking bewildered. He doesn't know what's happened, doesn't remember anything at all: cannot work out where on earth he is, what he's doing with Dean, why he's wrapped in blankets and lay in an alcove – nothing. The only thing he is entirely aware of is Dean sitting in front of him, a strange rumbling that seems to be reverberating throughout the room and the pain – endless amounts of unbearable pain that is coursing through every fibre of his body. Every muscle is aching, every bone damaged and every inch of his skin throbbing with bruises. His wings...he can't feel them at all, are they gone? How? Why? A hand reaches out to touch his face he flinches away violently.

Dean's face floods with pain, "Cas..." he chokes out.

"The pain...Dean it hurts_..._" It's all he can manage; even using his vocal chords hurts. Everything hurts. A tear escapes the angel's eyes, a broken sob flits through his busted lips and Dean really wants to reach out and touch him again, console him in some way but he doesn't know what to do, where to start. "Cas, what do you remember?" The angel shakes his head and looks him in the eyes, blue meeting green.

"Just...the last thing I can recall is doing shots of that awful alcohol with you and Sam..."

Dean's not altogether sure that's a good thing, okay so at least Cas can't remember the horrifying things that were done to him but Dean knows that he will eventually, the memories will creep up on him in some way or another, probably through nightmares – Dean's certain.

Suddenly, Castiel's voice is panicked, "Raphael! I can feel his Grace, Dean. He's angry, I must go to him." He starts to sit up.

"No!" The angel flinches again, eyes huge and scared, body tensed. "Shit, you can't go out there. He'll rip you to even thinner shreds than you're already in. We had to make a great escape but I'll fill you in when we're not currently mid-Armageddon, I promise. Just...please Cas, stay put."

Castiel nods and lies back down, body relaxing in relief as it meets the blankets again.

Dean sighs and calls over to Sam. The Sasquatch, who was previously rummaging through draws, rushes over, all floppy hair and gangly limbs, and starts asking Cas if he's alright – Dean tells him to save it, 'cause it's pretty obvious that Cas is nowhere near alright, not even close. The angel's eyes drift closed as he looks over at him and he smoothes his hand over his forehead before ushering Sam over to the other side of the room and beginning to fill him in on Cas' memory lapse.

"So he can't remember anything?" Sam asks, eyebrows scrunched up.

"Just the drinking."

"Wow..." The look in his eyes tells Dean that he has the same opinion on it as himself and he bites his lip. It's bound to become a real fucking pain in the ass at some point, Dean can feel it. But they'll have to put off crossing the bridge of Cas' memory problem for now because, as if on cue, Raphael doubles up the rumbling and the walls shake even more violently with the force of his Grace.

This time big chunks of the ceiling begin to fall, showering down on them, all white powder and dust and crumbled brick. It's like Armageddon come true and neither brother has any idea how to stop it.

"Shit!" he hears Sam curse as he narrowly avoids being crushed by a chunk of plaster. The two make their way over to the alcove, dodging the caving roof and falling bricks. Cas is trying to sit up again – Dean tells him to stay put, his voice low and warning as he scans the room and looks at his brother hoping to find a solution to the very bad situation they're in. No dice on Sam's behalf but Dean thinks he has the foundations of a plan, his brain is calculating rapidly, contemplating shacking up in the alcove with Cas until the archangel gets bored, working out how to slot Sam's stupidly long limbs in the confined space along with two other people. He has it, Sam will have to squish up in the corner and Cas will have to lay on Dean. He can't say it's the greatest plan in the world but if he has to shack up in a hole in the wall while under attack by a very pissed off archangel at least it'll be with his brother and his angel and it'll be warm and maybe they can play cards, Dean's sure he has a deck in the back pocket of his jeans, he can feel something digging into his left ass cheek...

Dean's brain finally catches up to him; _his _angel?

_What the hell_, his mind screams, _am I thinking? Cas isn't _my_ angel, hell, I don't even _want_ him to be my angel, well, at least I don't think I do...shit, do I? 'Cause __it's__ one thing to want to help the guy and break him outta his tower but to just, well, _want _him, I mean, I don't.__..really, I don't..._

Dean's internal struggle with whether he wants Cas to be he's angel or not is abruptly snipped short by the sudden silence that cuts through the room. It all stops.

The shaking ceases, the plaster and brick takes its last tumble from the ceiling, crushing a number of chairs and a small table and the church is filled with silence, the blinding light of the archangel's power is gone.

The brothers turn to each other slowly.

"What the-"

"I don't know Dean. He's...I mean, is he gone?" Sam's face is bewildered.

"Yes." Castiel answers for him. "I can no longer feel his Grace."

Eyebrows crumpled, Dean takes off and heads for the main part of the church. He pokes his head round the door and looks off across the alter, at the pews and down the aisle surveying the damage: the place looks like a bomb-site; there's blocks of the ceiling crushing the benches, beams of the dawns orange light streaming through the roof and the room is covered in a thick blanket of white dust. Dean coughs; they aren't gonna be able to migrate back into this room even if Mary Poppins suddenly turns up and magics the roof back together and gets the pews upstanding again, he can barely breathe due to the dust particles clogging up the air. At least Raph finally took flight and they have somewhere to stay in the form of a vestry with a bed though – sort of.

"Dean!" Sam's deep voice slices through Dean's thoughts and he all but flies back into the room. Something is wrong; he knows this because Sam is cradling Cas in his arms and the angel has gone completely limp, his body flopping sideways and there's blood pouring from his mouth. Dean's there in an instant, taking over Sam's position and barking at his brother to get something to wipe the blood with. His hand reaches out and cups near Cas's mouth, catching the sliver of blood that slides down his jaw.

Cas' eyes flicker open. "Dean..." his voice is barely a whisper, "...healing."

It's the last thing he says before his body drains of energy completely, the blood stops flowing and he flops like a dead weight in Dean's arms.

* * *

When Castiel wakes he does so in comfort. His body is resting on a soft mattress that moulds to his body, hugging him securely from neck to toe, his head resting on a luxuriously plump pillow made out of feathers and a thick quilt with soft sheets is draped comfortingly over his limbs. His torso is bare, something he doesn't understand the reason for until he opens his eyes and looks down. A thick bandage criss-crosses across his chest covering, what looks to be, a large deep wound, judging by the pain emanating from it and the fresh blood stain that adorns the bandage. He presses a finger to the stain and watches as the blood bubbles slightly and makes a little squelching sound as it passes through the layers of bandage and gauze. A hiss escapes his lips milliseconds after, as the pain radiates outwards from the gash licking through his ribs and up into his throat and Castiel begins to panic because it _didn't heal._

He specifically remembers healing himself in the church, when Dean was holding him and trying to stop his blood from pouring its way out of his mouth and his eyes were ablaze with concern. As soon as Raphael had left Castiel had called on his Grace and let it course throughout him and he thought it had done the job. Evidently though, something is amiss, either Castiel is all out of Grace or there is something about this particular wound that is different from the others and therefore renders his angelic power useless.

Cautiously he reaches within himself for his Grace and, when he gets a handle on it, focuses on the pain in his chest, trying his best to squash the feeling and close the wound, press the flesh back together. His eyes squeeze shut and he grits his teeth, concentration seeping through his veins, his face heating up but nothing happens. He puffs out a breath and tries again, mustering up as much energy as he can, as much Grace as he can but attempt number two goes just like the first and Castiel is left with an overwhelming need to throw something and curse at the air as if his inability to heal himself is somehow the fault of the room.

He pants hard, waits for his face to return back to a normal temperature and then sits up and surveys the rest of his body. There are a few other wounds: one to his right leg which looks particularly nasty due to the yellowish tinge to the edges of the bloodstain, two smaller ones on his inner thigh that are just scrapes compared to the other two, various scratches along both arms which vary in size and depth and one on his left cheek that isn't too serious. When he unfurls his wings fully and lets them spread throughout the room he notices two things: one, his feathers are back – good news, and two: there is a gigantic slice through the flesh in his left wing which radiates pain throughout him like nothing he's ever felt before – bad news, _very _bad news.

It all means nothing to Castiel however, who cannot work out why on earth he can't heal these last few injuries, why these appear to be unique to the other hundreds of wounds, scrapes, broken bones and bruises that he healed up.

"Cas! Dude, you're awake!" Dean bounds into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, enveloping Castiel in a hug. It catches the angel off guard and all he can do is yelp and allow Dean's arms to crush him into his chest. "Man, I thought you were down for the count at one point, back at the church when you were spitting blood and then when we got you in the car and you just kept moaning in pain and I had to sit in the backseat with you 'cause that was the only way to get you to shut the hell up. Then we got you back here and set you up in Bobby's guest bedroom and you just...I dunno, went like a statue and then started freaking _glowing_ and I really thought the Big Boss Man was calling you to heaven but then you stopped and, when I could see again, you'd just...yanno, healed. Well, mostly." He finishes his speech and gestures to Castiel's chest with a wince. "That looks like it needs cleaning and changing again."

Castiel hasn't spoken a word in comparison to Dean's hundred that are still spilling out of his mouth as he changes the bandages; talking seems to be Dean's way of coping with nerves, like he has to keep talking or his thoughts will take over and he doesn't want that to happen. Castiel does not know why.

"Dean," he winces a little as Dean's hand presses too hard on his cut. There's something that has been niggling in the back of his mind since he woke up. "Dean, Raphael will find me here."

Dean shakes his head, "He can't, Bobby found an old cloaking spell while we were in the church. It lasts for a few days, keeps the house and everything inside it off the radar."

Castiel processes this information with a frown, he has never heard of a 'cloaking spell' before - albeit he hasn't heard of much, what with him being imprisoned in a tower all his life – but a cloaking spell, he never would've thought it possible to escape Raphael's clutches, even for a few days. The feeling of freedom spreads warmth through his chest, loosening up the tense muscles and suddenly Castiel wants nothing more than to replicate Dean's hug from earlier but this time reciprocate it properly with his arms around the hunter, squeezing tight.

Another thing occurs to him; "The church where we were residing, how was it possible that Raphael could not enter?"

Dean's tongue is poking out from between his lips as he wraps the bandage expertly around Cas' torso, his warm hands meeting Castiel's bare back, causing goosebumps to spread across his skin and a shudder to pass across his back. Castiel swallows audibly.

"Sigils. Like them ones on the back of your door..." Dean answers distractedly, too engrossed in tracing a pattern of freckles on Castiel's neck, the bandaging is complete but Dean's hand came to rest on the angel's shoulder afterwards and, apparently got bored. The angel isn't complaining, it feels good and it's extremely soothing. Castiel doesn't understand what Dean's talking about when he refers to 'sigils on the back of his door' though but then something seems to occur to Dean and he carries on. "'Cept you've probably never seen them have you?" The angel shakes his head and Dean continues.

"They're like symbols that do stuff." Nicely put, the angel thinks; Dean couldn't be vaguer if he tried. He supposes he _is_ quite busy tracing patterns on Castiel's skin which is causing the angels breathing to go shallow and his eyes to drift closed so he can make an exception for his lack of elaboration though Castiel is still very curious. He makes a mental note to ask Dean about this later.

"This 'Bobby' you speak of, is he a relative of yours?" Castiel's voice is barely a whisper.

Here Dean launches into a long story of how he came to know Bobby; he tells Castiel of his father and his friendship with the older hunter, of days when he and Sam were younger and they'd spend weekends and weeks over here at Bobby's house/junkyard and Dean would help him fix up old motors while his Dad was on hunts, how Sam would sit on the porch with the dogs and just laze around, soaking up the sun. Castiel listens, gripped as Dean's tale forms into that of a makeshift bedtime story and his voice takes on more passion as he talks about his childhood. More than once the angel asks him for details, always for more details because if Dean describes the feelings, the things that surrounded him when he was younger Castiel can close his eyes and imagine that he too had a childhood. If he concentrates hard enough he can almost feel the sun caressing his bare shoulder just how Dean describes in his story about a 5 mile hike he did in the rocky mountains when he was 15 and hunting a wendigo, he can almost taste the ice cold of a popsicle sliding down the back of his throat just how Dean describes in his memories of sneaking into Bobby's fridge on hot summer days when the older man wasn't looking.

It is a pleasure to listen to Dean's voice, hear Dean's laugh and the catch of a rare sob in his throat as he goes through the ups and downs of his life and Castiel is engrossed for almost an hour before his eyes drift closed completely and they don't open again until the next day.


	9. Seeing All The Signs From Above

**_A/N: _**_OMG! Look, it's a chapter! And its number is 9. Yes, folks, I'm back :)_

_After a hugely overly long hiatus I finally managed to get the ball rolling again with my baby that is this fic. Yay! \o/_

_I told you lovely, loyal people not to give up on me and that I had no intention of giving up on TAOND and I sincerely hope that all my amazing reviewers and readers haven't wandered too far without breadcrumbs and can't find their way back. I'd be heartbroken…_

_So yeah, massive apology for how long this has taken but as you'll see when you read this chapter (hopefully, that is) things are about to get interesting…_

_On wit__h Chapter 9 and, as always, enjoy my lovelies…_

* * *

**_Chapter Nine_**

_Seeing All The Signs From Above_

It's three days after the Winchester's brought Castiel from the ruined church back to Bobby's house and that means that it's time to renew the cloaking spell. At the crack of dawn Dean pulls his icicle legs from the sleeping bag and lifts his body from the floor he's been camping out on. He's stiff and sore all over but he's shot down Bobby and Sam's suggestions to take one of the spare rooms or even the damn sofa many times and instead opted for the oh so (not) comfy wood floor of Castiel's room. He told them it's strictly business, purely to keep an eye on the angel but in truth he doesn't like the feeling he gets when he's away from him; he feels on edge, constantly worried and sick. It's far easier and much more convenient to crash on Cas' floor and put his mind at ease.

At noon the spell will wear off and Bobby's place will officially be back on the radar to any supernatural being that wants in. They have around 6 hours to get the cloaking spell back in place but Dean's impatient and would rather get it out of the way _now_.

He heads downstairs into the kitchen and catches Sam loading the table with all the ingredients and materials needed for the spell and Bobby searching the cupboards. Apparently he's not the only impatient one.

"Mornin'," Bobby greets. "Your brother here thought it a good idea to get the spell outta the way asap. Guess it makes sense, it'll put all our minds at rest if we just do it now."

"Yeah, I had the same idea."

Sam looks at him with crumpled brows and Dean chews his lip. The last time they did this it wasn't pretty – in fact it was goddamn ugly. He remembers the blood and the screams (on Sammy's part of course, he is the girl after all) and the pain. It's necessary, he knows, and if anyone's no stranger to pain its Dean Winchester. But there's just something about cutting into his _own, very human _skin that he doesn't much enjoy.

"This time we don't have to take as much blood. And we only need a lock of hair, not a tooth."

Oh yeah, the teeth issue. Dean's hoping Cas can zap them with some of his healing mojo when he's better after that one. He misses his back molar.

"What a relief; there I was thinking I was ending up a gummy bear at the end of this whole she-bang. Turns out I'm heading for the Mr Potato head look instead. We're gonna need to buy hats."

"You aren't the only who has to do it Dean."

"Please Sammy, taking a lock of hair from your vastly overcrowded head is like taking a cup of water from the ocean and Bobby hardly has any to begin with. Neither of you are gonna miss it," Dean quips back, and flexes his eyebrow triumphantly. Sam sighs and ignores him and instead carries on with the preparation for the spell.

"Bobby, could you hand me the dead snake please. I think we put it in the cupboard under the sink."

* * *

With the spell in tact Dean feels free to roam about his day without worrying that the house will suddenly crumble in to rubble. It was painful and there was blood a plenty, which was kinda the point of the spell, but it's done now and Dean can relax somewhat.

He decides to go and check on Cas. The angel had woke up countless time in the night, murmuring about Raphael and towers and the occasional whimper which Dean had come to realise meant he was re-living snippets of his attack. Each time Dean went to him and put a tentative hand to his shoulder and shook lightly, squeezed his fingers or smoothed a cooling hand over his heated forehead Cas woke equally as violently and terrified. Bolting upright, clutching the parts of him that hurt, breathing strained and frantic eyes wide and round with droplets of moisture gathering in his tear-ducts. After gentle coaxing from Dean who had eventually scooted Cas over and sat himself on top of the sheets that were wrapped around the angel, he told Dean every snippet in great detail. Each one was as short as the next but they grew in intensity and horror and listening to Cas' scream damaged voice whispering and choking over his words, Dean couldn't begin to imagine what he'd been through. He'd seen it, sure, but seeing and experiencing is an altogether different thing.

He didn't keep track of when the whimpers and the thrashing stopped but he does remember that Cas had called out to him when he went to leave his side and return to the floor, so Dean had remained surreptitiously half-sleeping next to the angel for a fair amount of time. He began to get uncomfortable when Cas had shuffled closer to him and twined his long fingers into Dean's shirt sleeve. His discomfort hit an all-time high about the time that he almost slipped into a deep sleep only to we woken by Cas gripping his waist so hard he was certain it would bruise, head tucked into Deans neck, breathing heavy. He'd hastily extracted himself from the angel, calmed him down, tucked him back in and retreated to his sleeping bag on the floor, so many unwanted thoughts swarming his head and bleeding into his dreams.

Cas hadn't woken up again after that and Dean can only hope that he'd stayed asleep long after Dean had dragged himself up to do the cloaking spell.

His hopes are proven true when he lets himself into the room and sees a sleep riddled Cas, mussed hair aplenty, just waking up and scrubbing at his half open eyes. At the sight, Dean bites back an 'awww' that's threatening to creep up his throat and twang on his vocal chords and instead thinks of cars and engine grease and giant _manly _cheeseburgers, 'cause really, when did he become such a freakin' girl? Cas, oblivious to Dean's internal struggle with his masculinity, carries on with his waking up routine; eyes scrubbed he's now stretching out, limbs elongated like a cat, joints popping back into their usual places and a sigh of contentment leaveing his lips. He doesn't even seem to have noticed Dean's presence at all so the hunter clears his throat and grabs his attention.

"Hey Cas," Dean smiles warmly before plonking himself down on the edge of the bed.

"Good morning, Dean," Cas returns the smile after licking his dry lips and the two proceed to stare, remarkably not awkwardly, at each other for a solid 5 minutes before Dean's breaks eye contact and clears his throat yet again.

Without Cas' eyes locked on his own, his thought process kicks back into gear and Dean relays the latest news of the Singer household to the silent angel. He informs him of the renewed cloaking spell, of Sam's freshly acquired, not so inconspicuous bald patch (Dean's own handiwork which he's damn proud of) and, saving the best til last, the news that breakfast is done and there's eggs and bacon awaitin' on the kitchen table for him.

Cas' eyes widen at the prospect of a good meal and he eagerly promises to be down in just a moment after he's taken a shower and changed.

* * *

After breakfast the four men scatter about the house to their respective roles. For Castiel that means lounging on Bobby's front room sofa and trying to comprehend the wonder of the TV. For Dean it means lounging at Castiel's side trying to explain the wonder of the TV and in turn, the wonder of Dr. Sexy, which so far, has only earned a slight tilt of the head and a confused expression from the angel.

For Sam and Bobby it means work and research, Bobby in his gigantic library rifling through books the old fashioned way and Sam perched demurely, like the girl he is, on one of the kitchen chairs, eyes glued to his laptop.

For hours there was no progress for any of them Dean was no further on in his mission to get Cas appreciating Dr. Sexy, Bobby had a colossal amount of papercuts, but that's about it and Sam was hitting his head agains a brick wall with google.

That is until the brick wall smashed under the weight of that gigantor head of his and he burst out with an overexcited "I've got it!"

To Dean it felt a bit like that scene in _Willy Wonka_ where Veruca's dad has his workers rifling through Wonka Bars for a golden ticket; one minute there seems to be no hope and the next there's a lady in a hairnet brandishing gold from her hand and screaming with glee. Sammy had the glee part down to a tee, too bad he wasn't wearing a hairnet though, Dean would've paid to see that.

As it was, Sam's outburst was in relation to a possible solution they had for offing an archangel, only it wasn't a solution to offing him so much as…downgrading him?

"According to Gabe at , there's an ancient Enochian spell that can strip an archangel of their status and bring them down to standard angel level," Sam explains, eyes bugged out from excitement at getting his geek on. "Gabe also says that, whilst there's a 'downgrading' spell there's also an 'upgrading' spell…" Sam pauses to flick his eyes back to the screen at an instant message that's just popped up on the site's private chat. He reads it and then continues, "…meaning that if Raphael knew the spell, us downgrading him wouldn't be of much use."

Dean is about to point out that the 'if' Sam's referring to is a ginormous one and that his _Willy Wonka_ style outburst was totally uncalled for and stupid and pointless before his brother begins to speak again, seemingly thinking that he was letting the information sink in with everybody first.

"But, and this is where it gets complicated," Sam starts. Then stops. Again.

Dean thinks he's gonna slap him upside the head if he carries on like a freakin' talent show host pausing for effect when announcing the winner.

"Gabe told me that there's _another_ spell that can be used along with the downgrading spell called a binding spell. Basically, what this does is binds an angel completely to their Grace. Now, you're all probably thinking the exact same thing that I was thinking, surely an angel is already bound to its Grace, right?"

Dean nods along with Bobby and Cas who're are both looking as completely confused and dubious as he is. Cas more so as, throughout his entire life he hadn't known there _was_ any other archangels, he figured Raphael was the one and only and because it never came up in friendly chit chat over shots, neither Dean nor Sam had ever known to correct him on his very inaccurate theory. His eyes had widened impossibly more than usually when Dean had told him the story of Michael, the archangel who'd tried to kidnap him when he was a child and had wound up killing his mother in a fire brought on by rage at his futile attempts. Cas had gone white, both from the horror of the story and the revelation that there were more big, bad evil winged bastards out there on power trips than just the Teenage Mutant Ninja Angel.

Dean can tell just by looking at his scrunched up eyebrows and weary expression that it's all a bit too much for the angel to take in. He's going to insist that Cas has a lie down and rests up after Sammy finally gets to the point. Sometime within the same decade hopefully.

"Right. They are." Sam announces, confirming what everyone already knew; angels are bound to their Grace because it is essentially their soul. "However, once a downgrading is complete the Grace of the particular archangel changes, thus detaching them from their Grace meaning that it is extremely easy for said angel to upgrade again within a matter of seconds."

It's funny, Dean always thought of angels as mindless robots without emotions and here Sam is talking about them like they're computers with hardware upgrades and downgrades. Go figure.

"So what does any of that have to do with a binding spell, boy?" Bobby chimes in, asking the question on everyone's mind. Sam looks over his shoulder back at the latest IM and reads it before rattling off more information.

"Well, Gabe's just replied to that very question and he says that once an archangel's Grace is brought down to the level of a standard angel, i.e. they no longer have unlimited supply of Grace, they lose immunity to an angel sword and you can deep fry them amongst other things, you have to bind them to their newly changed Grace and this makes the upgrading process much more lengthy. We're talking a solid week before Raphael could get his archangel powers back and that's a huge margin of time for us to get rid of him."

A bud of hope beings to blossom in Dean's chest at those last words. A whole fucking weak to hunt down a demoted archangel and kill the sonofabitch.

"So, were gonna have to get our hands on these spells. Sammy, work your magic? Cas, you're taking a nap and Bobby, I'll come help you rifle through books and shi–" Dean starts reeling off orders hyperactively but is stopped midway by his brother's raised hand.

"No need Dean, Gabe says he has the spells in an old Enochian version of the bible he has on hand. He says if we meet up with him he'll gladly hand over the spells and he's happy to help."

A wave of uncertainty settles over the room and Dean wants to know why this Gabe dude is so willing to give out pretty heavy _ancient_ biblical murdering info.

He raises an eyebrow suspiciously, "Dude, we don't even know this guy. Hell, he isn't even a hunter and we have a hard time trusting them most of the time. What makes you think this guy's legit?"

Sam chews his lip thoughtfully, "Before I even mentioned Raphael, right after I asked about the binding spell, he told me that he knew it worked 'cause he'd tried it on an archangel that was hunting him." Sam goes back to chewing, this time nervously, apparently trying to decide whether to share with the class.

"Dean…it was Michael. He killed the archangel Michael."

_Well I'll be damned,_ was all that came to Dean's mind.


End file.
